


The Raven's Blade I: A distant Light (rewrite)

by Valandhir



Series: The Raven's Blade - the rewrite [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boromir Lives, Gen, Mix of book and movie canon, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 209,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kili survived the battle of the five armies, thought he lost his home again. Decades later a grim dwarven warrior comes across a man searching for Imladris. Thus begins a journey across the lone lands that will lead into war.  Rated M for violence, just to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Prince in Exile

**Author's Note:**

> Over one year ago the wonderful Scribe of Red offered to help me edit “A distant Light” and let me say, she did tremendous work on it. With her digging into it the story grew, in detail and expression, it almost doubled in length. (Do not be fooled by less chapters, I tried to smooth the chapter structure a bit). Unfortunately her job and mine left us less and less time to work together, and thus I finally decided to finish the edit of the first part alone. The result of which you will find here. 
> 
> While I will try and dig into the second part on my own I am not sure if I can manage the same results. What Scribe of Red did was not beta-reading, she dug into my storytelling, my descriptions, my characterizations, the details and prodded me to add, expand and deepen what was already there. I will try and do the same on my own for the other parts… though no promises how long it is going to take.
> 
> On the same note: I am looking for someone to seriously and patiently beta-read the German versions of Part I and II of the saga. 
> 
> I hope you’ll enjoy the expanded version of the tale.
> 
> Valandhir

 

** Prologue: Prince in Exile **

**  
**

The grave was not deep beneath the Mountain, as stories later would tell – it was outside on the height under the pines that long ago had blazed in Smaug’s terrible fire. The Dwarves had built a mighty stone cairn to lay their fallen King to rest. The deep grey stone was carved with the raven on either side, but no other adornment had been placed on it yet except for the runic inscriptions.

 

Thorin Son of Thrain

King under the Mountain

 

No words mentioned that his eldest nephew was resting beside him, having sacrificed his life shielding Thorin as they broke through the ranks of the Orc host. Bard the Bowman and Thranduil of Mirkwood stood a few paces away from the tomb, having placed the Arkenstone and Orcrist with Thorin before the heavy stones had closed over his resting place. They could have left with most of those who had been assembled here hours ago, and yet, there was still a decision to be made in this place, and both were determined to know which it was to be.

 

Several Dwarves stood at the heights, some keeping a respectful distance to one standing separate. Kíli stood still in front of the dark grave, head bowed, dark hair torn by the wind, not holding back the tears in his eyes. He was hardly able to stand on his own feet; the healers had been loath to allow him to get up at all. He had insisted on coming here, not caring if it endangered his healing, or if the healers liked it. The pain he felt standing, was nothing he truly registered, the pain inside his chest was too fierce to allow him to notice the wounds marring his body.

 

The tears burning in his eyes Kíli did not even try to hold them back, he had no strength left to fight them, or to pretend at a façade. Fíli, his Fíli rested inside the cairn, beside their Uncle Thorin… and the hole in Kíli’s heart was raw with the pain of loss. He wished he could have been buried beside them, just placed in the grave beside them, to die in the dark. Their presence would have been all the comfort he could ask for, even if it was to starve to death under the dark stones, only to be with them again. He wanted to reach out, like he still could touch their cold hands through the heavy lid of the cairn, like he still could reach them and beg them to allow him to follow them into the long darkness from whence there was no return. Why had he lived, when they had fallen? Fíli… smashed by Azog’s mace… Thorin dying in that last fight, cold in the lethal embrace with his archenemy, his final words… his heartbreaking plea for forgiveness that was heard by none other than Kíli. If Thorin had at least known that there was nothing to forgive, nothing to ask forgiveness for, if he had only felt that none of them would turn away from him.

 

But he had died alone, with only Kíli to comfort him, before the Orcs stormed again. Oh why had they not done their work right? Why had they not hacked him to pieces like they had tried to? Why had they to fail the one time they should have done the work properly? Kíli gasped, trying to not sob loudly, but failing at it. A cold gust of wind tore his hair and send cold ghosting fingers tracing over the mars the tears left on his cheeks, like he could feel Fíli’s fingers still, wiping them away. Only… Fíli was gone, cold and dead under the stones and Kíli was alone, his soul torn asunder and left behind in a world that he did only wish to leave.

 

Steps approached, two familiar sets of steps on the hard stone ground behind him. He recognized them as Balin and Dwalin, giving him support while allowing for the space he needed to grieve. They meant well, they truly cared, but their presence made him only feel more keenly that he was alone now. He would never hear Fíli’s laughter again, nor hear Thorin admonish him – all that remained was the hollow emptiness spreading in his chest that hurt worse than all the wounds on his body.

 

Dwalin held Balin back from joining the lad. This was not the time to try and comfort Kíli, not with the pain wrecking through him like a fiery lash, not when he hardly was able to stand and when he was crying openly. The warrior silently focused on the stone cairn – how often had Thorin said that this quest might lead them to an early unmarked grave? It had come sadly true and Dwalin’s heart was heavy with the loss of a friend, of his King. From his earliest childhood on Dwalin had been trained to one day serve the Prince, before he had even known what it would mean to follow Durin’s House, and before he had found a friend in the dwarrow he was sworn to serve. A part of him whispered that he was the only one surviving of Thorin’s personal guard and that a Captain of the Guard should follow his King into the fire, like Daroin would have, had he lived long enough to see Thrór fall in Azanulbizar.

 

No, Dwalin knew he could not do that. He did not fear death, not even the searing flame that should burn him to ashes, but one thought kept him from doing what tradition would demand. The thought of the young dwarrow standing before the cairn. Kíli was left alone now, with none of his family left to protect him – it was enough to break any soul. Dwalin well remembered how Thorin had grieved for Frérin, losing his brother had nearly killed Thorin. And it was worse with Kíli who had never been separated from his brother in his life. _Forgive me, my friend, but you will have to wait for me a while,_ Dwalin thought, in his mind seeing Thorin’s face, _your boy will need me, if he is to survive this._

 

Heavy steps resounded on the hill grounds and Dwalin frowned deeply when he saw Dáin approach. The King of the Iron Mountains had chosen an ill time to come here. The broad-shouldered Dwarf stepped away to cut off Dáin. Not a man of many words, Dwalin stared down the short, compact Dwarf with the extensive grey braids.. “Leave him be.”

 

Dáin frowned impatiently at Dawlin. “What must be spoken of is not yours to decide,” he said coolly, his eyes going past the warrior to the young one standing at the grave. He seemed too lost in his personally wailing, he would have to made talk sensibly, whether he liked it or not.

 

Before things could escalate, Kíli woke from his trance and turned around. With a swift motion he swiped his hand over his eyes, to hide the worst tears, though there were still some glistening in the long eyelashes. “Dawlin,” he said softly, his gaze meeting the warrior’s eyes directly and Dwalin felt a shiver run down his spine, the black eyes were pained, raw, shining like diamonds of the deep, yet there was a measure of strength still in them.“let him come here. If he wishes to speak to me, this time is as good as any.”

 

Dáin walked past Dwalin. Dáin was a short dwarf, shorter than the rough warrior, and even shorter than young Kíli. And he hated that of all the family he had inherited the shortish stature, while some others got a near un-dwarven height. “They said you had a stout heart, lad,” he said to Kíli. “It will be easier to speak in the shadow of these stones than down in the halls with their prying ears.”

 

Kíli acquiesced, and they walked a few steps along the tomb to the ridge where it overlooked the surrounding land. Dáin walked in a speedy step, not waiting if Kíli could keep up. He could see Kíli wince as he walked, favoring his right leg slightly. Had no one taught him to keep his posture? “Thorin was most distressed to learn of your brother’s death,” Dáin began without preamble. “It pained him to know Fíli had been killed defending him. He was glad you had at least survived… He must have loved you both dearly.”

 

The breath caught in Kíli’s throat. “He was dead… he died on the hill, I was there,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

 

“He merely passed out, not that it mattered, he was as good as dead when you saw him last.” Dáin remained standing at the ridge, being the elder of them, it would force Kíli also to stand and as long as he did not pass out from exhaustion that was fine by Dáin. “He woke only once before he finally died.” He cast a glance at the silent young Dwarf Prince beside him. “But… he never named either of you his heir. You were the sons of his sister and maybe, in his mind, you were meant to take up his mantle. Yet he never named you, not even in the hour of his death. That puts you – his nephew – and me – his cousin – on even footing when it comes to succession.”

 

“I see.” Kíli’s eyes followed the flight path of a single eagle streaking across the valley. “And as you already have your army here and have a claim on the throne…”

 

Dáin stretched his shoulders, assessing the younger Dwarf anew. He seemed to see things more realistic than Dáin had expected and realism was not something that he had come to associate with Thorin and his family. Maybe a set of reasonable arguments would work better than a continued battering of his flailing emotions? It was worth a try. “You are barely of age, Kíli. In fact, in the Iron Mountains you’d still be a youth.”

 

“But I am not from the Iron Hills.” Their change of ways had been a departure from long-established Dwarven tradition to do so, but the great number of orphans left among the Erebor Dwarves after Azanulbizar had forced change upon them. “A Dwarf in the Ered Luin will be named adult once he passes seventy and proves he can kill a Warg, an Orc, and forge a decent axe or sword.” Kíli’s voice became softer at the last part, in his mind he saw his brother – brave, honorable Fíli, return from fighting his first Warg-rider, his eyes shining with pride and the scar he had retained from that fight something he had bragged about for years to come. His example had spurned Kíli to train hard to also finish his trials as early – only that someone had thought it funny to bring him up against an entire Warg-pack. How Fíli had hugged him when he came home… the happy laughter, a fresh set of tears threatened to fall from his eyes and he had to force them back.

 

“Now, there, lad, that may hold true for that exile home you founded back in the Ered Luin, but no one from the proper Dwarven lands will take your claim seriously,” Dáin pointed out. “And my share in reclaiming Erebor is not a small one either—your brother, brave though his death may have been, and your uncle did far less. Even the dragon was killed by another.”

 

A hollow pain rose inside Kíli’s chest and he pressed his hands against where he could feel the heavy bandages under the thin green tunic he wore. After all they had went through, after surviving Orcs and giants, spiders and the dungeons of Mirkwood… to hear Thorin disparaged so was nearly too much for him. “At least we’ve tried,” he quoted what he had heard was carved into the markstone by Mirrormere’s cold shore, commemorating all those who had fallen in another terrible battle. “contrary to you, who sat in his Halls and held speeches.”

 

Dáin’s eyes widened at the sudden retaliation, so there was a spark of Thorin in the boy after all – it would need to be crushed thoroughly, or he would remain dangerous for all his life. Some people needed to be broken, they would even be happier in the end. “Whatever wild adventures you had – they are certainly nothing to qualify you for the throne. And with your father’s low birth and Thorin being childless…”

 

He was suddenly and violently spun around, brought face to face with the thunderously angry face of Dwalin. “How dare you, Dáin?” Dwalin growled, his voice deepening in anger. How did this maggot dare to question the succession? Thorin may have long hesitated to truly adopt them, feeling he was betraying their father Dari by doing so, but he had eventually gone through with it, and Dwalin had been witness. “Kíli is Thorin’s heir and you know it – he adopted both boys the day Dís died. I should toss you down that ridge – that would end your claim nicely.” He shook Dáin a little, to make sure he understood Dwalin was serious.

 

“Try,” Dáin croaked, trying to break the vicious grip. Anger rose inside him, like Thorin too, Kíli had the support of brutes and lowborn followers and it was time to see to realities here. “You are barely a dozen; your people are on the other side of the world still. My army will make short work of you.” He did not yet call for his guards who were waiting within sight, if out of earshot. Once they came, there would be no survivors up here, only a few more bodies to burry.

 

“Dwalin.” Again it was Kíli’s voice that brought the warrior to a halt. He did not even speak loud, but his words cut through Dwalin’s rage effortlessly. “Set him down. He has us checkmate and he knows it.” How could the low voice reach him with more force of command than even some of Thorin’s shouts? Dwalin wondered, but in this moment Kíli was more of a Prince than he had ever been before, and in spite of hardly being able to stand and of the pain he was in, he was still in control of the situation.

 

Angrily, Dwalin set the flustered King down again, making it so hard the Dwarf had a tough time staying on his feet. He would have liked to see Dáin land on his fat arse. “Kíli, we will stand with you – none of us will stand for such treachery,” he said fiercely, maybe he should wring Dáin’s neck until the Lord of the Iron Hills considered going home and surviving this day.

 

Gently, Kíli put a hand on Dwalin’s arm. “I know. You are one of the truest, most loyal souls that my House was ever fortunate enough to meet, Dwalin.”

 

Dáin straightened up, his gaze surveying them shrewdly. So the wounded pup was still able to command the battle lion, amazing- He would not have believed Dwalin to tolerate such weak leadership. “I’d put that to a test – how many of your kind would prefer their home back over another bloody war?” he pointed out, his entire focus on Kíli, the other two were of little significance. “And a war it will be, one to put this little battle here to shame, with thousands and thousands more dying. As useless a death as your lowborn father found in Azanulbizar.”

 

Balin, had watched with his beard bristling with barely suppressed anger. Kíli was already so close to the edge of breaking, and with any moment that passed, he got paler, having visible difficulties to stand up straight and Dáin chose to play political games here? Had the Lord of the Iron Hills no decency at all? Did he not care that every new blow might be enough to break what little remained of Kíli’s spirit? Or was that what he wanted, what he intended from the beinning? Stepping forward, he took position beside Kíli, his entire demeanor showing where he stood.. “What are you thinking, Dáin?”

 

“He thinks that he is the laughing winner.” Kíli exhaled slowly and now spoke more evenly. The deep hollow gap in his chest was still there, the pain numbing all other pain that he felt and he doubted he would ever not feel the hole Fíli had left in his soul, but Thorin had taught him that duty came before grief and that the care for the living must always take priority for the mourning of the dead. _Duty first, grief later._ He repeated the line in his head again and again, like a prayer that could give him some strength, some way to face this. He had to – Thorin would expect him to, he would demand that he do his duty and maybe he could still feel his presence here,  so close to the place where he rested. Facing Dáin Kíli made himself meet the other dwarf’s eyes.  “He would not give us an army when we needed it, and now, with Thorin dead, he can take Erebor for his own.”

 

“An army against a monster…” Dáin tried to interrupt the words that were all too calm, all too strong for his taste.

 

Kíli raised his hand, forestalling Dáin’s words, not allowing him to speak. “Do not protest or claim noble motives here, Dáin. There is no one but us to hear. What was your plan for me, then? Would I have died within a few days also if I did not support your claim?” His hand did not go to the sword by his side, nor was there anger in his voice. Kíli asked calmly, he could easily speak about his death now, if it were only himself and no one else, he could have discussed his own execution with Dáin and would have cared less. If only he could rest beside his brother, he would be happier again.

 

“I would rather you vanished entirely.” Dáin was surprised that it was the young Prince who seemed to have the clear eye for politics. Though he did not say it out loud, he would have made sure the Prince was executed privately and the Legend about his vanishing put into circulation. Had anyone but Dwalin brought the young one off the battlefield, Dáin might have arranged for another tragic death, but unfortunately Dwalin had stayed beside Kíli most of the time, having too keen an eye on the healers.  “Even with your support, there’d be those who’d whisper that you are the true King of the Mountain. No matter where you went among Dwarves… you are too much like your uncle; you would always be the uncrowned King. And we had enough of that with Thrór’s line already.”

 

Kíli could sense Balin’s shock and Dwalin’s fierce anger – they both would fight if it came down to a choice, and that was why he could not make that call. Kíli’s eyes went to both of them, Balin, the sage old Dwarf, mentor and friend, whose wise council had so often been a guide to them; and Dwalin… powerful, steadfast Dwalin. He only needed to meet their eyes and know they would fight, even if they stood no chance against Dáin’s amassed army. His throat became tight, and he bowed his head. He did not fear death for himself any more – if it was only him, he’d gladly rush into one last fight, one last battle to become as cold and still as his brother who rested under these dark stones. But imagining Balin and Dwalin both fallen, dead and pale on a field of blood like Thorin… like Fíli… the very idea threatened to drive tears to Kíli’s eyes. He could not think of them, of his friends slaughtered, he would not… no, he would not do that to them. They deserved so much better. Thorin had valued each and every one of his loyal followers highly; he had placed their wellbeing before his own, and he’d expect as much from his remaining heir. And Kíli would not sacrifice them – it was unthinkable, even if it meant stepping back from the legacy he had been raised to. He could almost see his Uncle’s angry glare, Thorin would be disappointed that Kíli caved in before Dáin, that he betrayed the legacy he had passed on to him, but… no, buts.  No legacy, no crown, no title, was worth the death of his friends, had been worth the death of his brother. And Kíli would gladly give up his claim if it spared his last friends the cruel fate of Fíli. “On one condition, Dáin,” he said, looking slowly up, his voice far more steady than his heart.

 

“Name it.”

 

Kíli had to clear his throat to be able to speak at all. “You will allow all of the Erebor Dwarves to return should they wish, and their ancestral homes and possessions restored to them. If you want to be King of the Mountain, you have to do right by the Mountain’s people.” The words burned in his throat, they felt like the worst betrayal of Thorin’s dream and even as Kíli spoke them, he felt in his heart that they were right. No good leader, no Prince should ever bring a civil war to his people, no good leader sacrificed his people for personal gain. He’d rather be nobody, than to disappoint his friends in such a way.

 

Dáin visibly relaxed at this demand, he had expected something more detailed, an acknowledgment of Kíli’s status, maybe negotiations about a marriage into Dáin’s family. But it seemed the boy was really willing to give it all up – could his low-born father have brought the bloodline down that much?  “You have my word, Kíli. A King doing less would be stupid. Your people have proven their strength time and again.” Dáin replied, meeting Kíli’s eyes, he rarely gave his word, because no one trusted a word-breaker, so it was wiser to not give one’s word instead of having to break it. But in this case – it was the only sensible thing to do either way. The title of King of Durin’s folk would mean reuniting the fractured nation, which meant bringing the people of the Mountain back into the fold.

 

“Kíli… no.” Balin stepped beside him, his hand reaching for the archer’s arm. “You can’t let him get away with this.”

 

“He already has, Balin.” Kíli turned to him, finding Balin’s gaze. The old dwarf had served three generations of his family, from King Thrór to Thorin, and he so much deserved some kind of reward, some peace after a life of strife and loss. Reaching deep inside his heart, Kíli found the words to say his goodbyes to Balin, to sent him home to the Mountain with at least some warmth, some thanks. “My friend… he could as easily bury us beside Thorin and go on with his schemes. My uncle wanted to give our people back their home. He wanted them to be proud once more, to no longer live in foreign lands, homeless and scorned among Men. You, your brother… you all faced death, danger, and horrors beside him, out of loyalty, out of friendship… You deserve to gain back what was taken from you so long ago.”

 

Awed, Balin looked up at the young Dwarf. Where was the mischievous boy he had mentored in the Ered Luin? The wild, young archer that had fought by his Uncle’s side? He had been burned away by fire, by battle, and by grief, leaving a young, solemn warrior – a young Prince. In the middle of loss, in the ashes of the past battle the next Lord of Durin’s line had been forged and Balin was honored that Kíli would call him friend.“I would rather live out the rest of my life in the Ered Luin than under the rule of one who stole the throne from your family, my Prince.”

 

Dwalin nodded approvingly. “He is right, Kíli. I won’t have anything to do with that maggot – and neither will the others.”

 

Deeply touched by their unwavering loyalty,Kíli was lost for words, his throat tightening, nearly choking him. They could not mean that – they could not choose another exile over finally going home. But meeting Balin’s eyes, and Dwalin’s steady gaze he knew they meant it, they truly meant it, and even the hollow gap inside him could not swallow up the relief about the thought that he would not be entirely alone on the road that lay before him. . “Leave the others their own choice,” he insisted.

 

Dáin weighed what he had just heard. He had hoped that his rule would be uncontested but it seemed Thorin’s house still had a stubborn following. It was something to keep an eye on in the years to come. “Most will chose more wisely,” he said acidly, he had watched Kíli closely throughout the entire conversation, disgusted by the unveiled emotions and now unable to resist striking a hit or two on that noble façade the young one put up, an aspiration to the noble bearing of his uncle, but Dáin found him lacking. It was those dark eyes that gave Kíli away: they were too pained, to grieved; his heart was still weeping for those buried here. Dáin held a measure of respect for mourning one’s brother, but not to such a crippling, weakening extent, and what in the world would make the boy mourn Thorin – the ever haughty and arrogant son of Thrain – was beyond Dáin. If someone did not deserve tears, it was Thorin. The boy was weak: physically and mentally, even when he had awoken from his injuries the first time, he had not turned right to securing his base of power, instead he had wept for his brother, instead of insisting that the funeral be pushed back to another time, he had allowed himself to be seen so weak he was barely able to stand and ultimately he stared at the stone grave with such longing, like he would prefer to rest inside with his family. That was no strength, it was a sickness, worse than the sickness for gold – that at least strove for power, but this boy was nothing but a bleeding heart. Kíli barely held the grief at bay, and Dáin decided now was the time to expose that weakness for others to see. “They will know where their gold and home is and where they will find a true King.” He turned, walking off stiffly.

 

Kíli watched the Dwarven King leave, fresh pain erupting in his chest. It was not the pain for the lost throne – much as it hurt to disappoint his uncle’s dream to that extent, he knew Thorin would have made the same decision… or at least the Thorin he had known for most of his life would have. The King fallen to the spell of the gold might have fought. Memories of the events before the battle choked him, and he tried to push them away. He did not want to remember Thorin, his brave and noble uncle, with that mad gleam in his eyes. And Fíli… no, he could not even dare to think his name or he would be choked by the loneliness, the empty hollow gap inside him. Why had he not been allowed to die with them?

 

He knees buckled and he nearly feel but one moment before his knees could hit the hard stone ground, he felt Dwalin’s huge hand closing around his upper arm, Kíli looked up, seeing the worried expression in the scarred warrior’s eyes. Wordlessly, he put his hand above Dwalin’s, trying to somehow thank him for his silent support. He had wanted to not think, to be empty, maybe to stop feeling for a while, but Dwalin reminded him that he was not alone, that there were others still with him and he was grateful for the huge warrior’s presence. Dwalin hugged him close, the warm gesture enough to nearly break Kíli into fresh tears, but he bit them back, when he heard steps approach. He pulled from the hug, but still gravitated closely to the older warrior, finding some comfort in his presence.

 

Dwalin was nearly relieved to see the pain in Kíli’s eyes, for a moment he had feared Kíli would withdraw into himself, to a place where no one could reach him. Pain bad though it might be, had to be lived through to heal. And raw as Dwalin’s own emotions were, about Thorin and Fíli fallen, focusing on helping Kíli to survive this nightmare would help him to deal with his own sadness. He felt Kíli startled back and looked around. Thranduil was leaving, uncaring as always, why the Elf King had been here at all, was beyond Dwalin. But Bard the Bowman came walking towards them.

 

Dwalin shot him a glare; this was really not the time to debate the past events. Kíli was exhausted, physically and mentally, speaking of the dark hours before the battle, of Thorin’s slip into madness would only bring more pain, more desperation and they had enough of that already.

 

“And what would you want?” Dwalin asked more sharply, trying to make the man hear that he could take his issues up with Dáin and good luck with that. While Dwalin had no dislike for the Bowman, he would not see Kíli put through more needless pain.

 

“I will not intrude upon you long.” Bard spoke swiftly; he could see the warrior’s patience was already wearing thin. His eyes sought Kíli’s gaze, the dark eyes he met were unreadable and empty like the winter skies. Bard had seen such expressions before; they belonged to men who had no reason to life anymore, not the will to put with the world. Those who sought death. “Your family had a long feud with Smaug, and even as I was the one to strike him down, you should have this.” With these words he handed Kíli one long, glittering dragon’s fang.

 

Closing his hand over the icy cold fang, Kíli inclined his head. His mind refused to think, or even consider that he held a tooth of the beast that had wrought so much suffering on so many. When he spoke the words came to him by reflex, training providing what his soul could not give any more. His lips moved, he spoke and his heart could hardly hear his own voice. “You have my thanks, Bard of Laketown. And I wish you luck in rebuilding your city.”

 

Bard’s eyes grew thoughtful. “It seems we have a new King under the Mountain to watch out for. I fear there will be many a day when even I shall wish your uncle had survived.” With this, he bowed slightly and left the gravesite.

 

With the last stranger gone Kíli’s strength gave out, he could not stand any longer, the pain from the countless wounds for a moment even drowning out the hollow emptiness inside him. Dwalin’s strong hands caught him again and the warrior helped him to sit down by the dark stones. Kíli closed his eyes, leaning against the grave, he wanted to stay here, to simply sleep and never wake again, to let his soul slowly slip into the Grey, into the dream from whence there was no waking.

 

“Kíli, lad,” Dwalin’s deep, rumbling voice called him from the brink of sleep. Looking at the bald warrior, Kíli saw pain and worry closely etched into the older dwarf’s features. “I know it hurts, more like you think you can bear,” Dwalin’s voice was gentle, having lost all his usual gruffness. “you need to hang on, to keep going… it will get better. It will heal, even if you cannot see it yet. Do you think you can try? Please?”

 

It was that last word that cut right into Kíli again, he remembered how Dwalin had carried him off the bloody hill before the gates, how he had been with him while the healers tried to put him back together, his voice was all Kíli remembered amongst the pain, the deep voice of Dwalin, talking, encouraging him, begging him to hold out, to not die too. And now that he saw the pain in the old warrior he was startled to see how much more pain his own demise would bring to him. “I will hang on, Dwalin, I promise,” he clasped the powerful hand, feeling his fingers nearly vanish under the grip. He had chosen to keep his friends alive, to not fight and die… and if that meant he had to go on, to life for them, he’d do it. Duty first. Grief later.

 

Dwalin leaned closer and their forehead’s touched for a moment, a gesture of comfort for both of them. Before they separated and Dwalin sat down beside Kíli.

 

A cold wind rose from the east, sweeping across the mountain and the valley below. Snow began slowly to fall from heavy grey clouds. Dwalin’s eyes went to the far of ridge of mountains to the west. It would be a long way home.

 

 


	2. A meeting in the dark

** **

** Chapter 1: A Meeting in the dark **

****

75 years later

 

Thunder was rolling along the valley, sounding like the angry drums of war, the echo riveting from rock face to rock face. Raising his arm to shield his eyes against the pouring rain, Boromir peered up the valley. These Mountains were a maze, if he had ever seen one and he was not sure when he had last seen the traces of a decent path. Behind him Westwind dragged his hoof over the wet ground, like to remind him that standing here would get them nowhere. “You are right, Brawler, we need to find some shelter,” Boromir said to the stallion as he led him onwards and up the long winding valley. “and here we thought this journey would be easy.”

 

He usually did not have the habit to talk to his horse, but in the long and lonely months on the road with only Westwind for company talking to another being had been a relief sometimes. Still he had replaced the poetic name the stable master had given the horse, to something that befit the stallions’ character. When he had departed from Minas Tirith to find Rivendell his plan had been simple enough. Cross Rohan, go North and find the Elven Kingdom, it had sounded so easy when put like that.

 

Another bolt of lightning struck the Mountains and fierce thunder rolled along the vale, the echoes even louder than before. Boromir looked back, his eyes squinting as he tried to penetrate the veil of heavy rain. Were the truly voices in the air? He was sure he had heard a shout, laughter. Patting Westwind’s wet flank he released a long breath. Ever since he had passed he had felt that something was watching him, for many a night since then he had felt like there were watchful in the darkness, hounding his every step.

 

The stone ground was slippery with mud and washed out slit, Boromir’s boots slipped on the uneven grounds and he was lucky that his horse was surefooted enough to follow him across the side of the valley. Peering to the left Boromir saw a small bend in the rocks that gave way to a narrow winding pathway leading higher up. He had no real intention to climb these Mountains – they were a rough and unwelcoming place, but maybe he could find some shelter from the merciless weather higher up?

 

The first few steps up the new path were hard, the ground was steep and salacious but only a few more paces up the path became more even and steady. Boromir shook his head, there was truly a path here, half hewn into the rock it wound along under the high rock face that even provided shelter from the worst wind. Nevertheless Boromir checked his weapon at once. Paths in these parts were not to be trusted, he had learned that the hard way in Dunland, were any sign of a path had been sure to lead into another encounter with bandits.

 

Guiding Westwind around another bend, Boromir was glad to be away from the fierce wind for a while. The rain was still pouring down on them but without the constant gale it was less icy. “Finding an elven kingdom sounded so easy back home, didn’t it, Brawler?” he said as they slowly progressed upwards. Imladris was the fabled hidden Elven Kingdom of the North. Hidden, being the problem word. His father had consulted with nearly every wise man in Gondor without being able to shed any light on how to find a kingdom that the Elves had painstakingly hidden away.

 

A movement above made Boromir stop, gently he placed his hand on Westwind’s nostrils, signaling the horse to be absolutely silent. Craning his neck Boromir tried to see what had been moving between the rocks above. Originally he had hoped to find some aid in the reaches of formerly Arnor.  While long gone and diminished, he had firmly believed that people of this ancient kingdom lived still. Arnór’s people had to be much like Gondor’s – they would never give up on their homeland; they would keep fighting, King or no King. And they had been allies of the Elves, they should know where Imladris was to be found.

 

Nothing moved between the rocks, no person, no animal hiding in the shelter of the jagged stones, whatever he had seen it must have been a trick of the dim light and pouring rain. In that bad light it was easy to see things that were not there. Gently he patted the horse’s neck. “There’s nothing there, Brawler, not even Men. I wonder if anyone at all lives in these wilds.” Leading the horse further along the narrow path, Boromir pondered what he should do. The only vague description he could go by was a letter by King Valandil, which Faramir had dug up from the ancient archives. There it was said that Imladris lay in the western Reaches of the Misty Mountains, close to an ancient road leading towards the western seas.  But sticking to the Mountains while trying to find Imladris had only gotten him into this maze of valleys and canyons.

 

He knew he had to make some haste, Autumn was approaching fast, and soon the icy weather would begin. For now it was just the rain – heavy clouds driven by a western gale unleashing their heavy load upon the mountain range. Never in his whole life had he encountered such a downpour, let alone days and days of pouring rain.

 

On the other side of the path Boromir saw a gap in the hillside. A rather large cave entrance lay to the side of the path. Swiping his wet locks out of his face, Boromir led Westwind from the path and up to the cave mouth. He hoped that the cave would have room for them both. After the long months of travelling they both were tired and four days of constant downpour had left Boromir with the feeling to never get dry again.

 

The cave was rather large, Boromir could enter without having to duck and the sandy cavern was large enough to allow room for himself and the horse. “See, Brawler, we should be able to wait the worst weather out. And then we get down from these Mountains. It might be easier to find this fabled East Road after all.”

 

Boromir loosened the saddle, taking it off, the bridle followed. He had not much to rub Westwind off, but he did what he could to make his faithful companion comfortable.

 

After he had seen to the horse, Boromir Sat down with his back against the cold stone. After the long march in the dreadful weather sitting in the relative warmth of the cave was quite comfortable, even with the wet clothes. Drawing his sword, Boromir took the whetstone to remove the damage from the last two run-ins with bandits. After he had left Dunland, he truly had hoped for a change because he was closing in on the lands that formerly had been Arnor. But in the weeks of crossing into the lands of the fallen Kingdom he had only found wilderness with denizens so unfriendly that he would have preferred true wilderness instead. It was something that he could not get over yet. It was known that there were survivors of Arnor, Northen Dunedain, they were still organized enough to have leaders if all that Gondor had heard was correct. Why then in the name of the Numenór had they not begun to reclaim their land? If Gondor had dropped Ithilien like this, Minas Tirith would be a second Minas Morgul these days.

 

Westwind whined softly, nudging his shoulder. “I know, Brawler, brooding does not help us at all.” Boromir said to the horse, putting the blade away. He leaned back against the wall, trying to calm hi mind and find some sleep. After an hour or so, the constant sound of the rain helped him to doze off and fall into a leaden sleep..

 

It was a loud crack that woke him from his slumber: a deep, bursting crack like ice breaking on the river in spring. Was the cave collapsing? His heart racing, Boromir tried to get to his feet. He reached to the side for his sword, trying to roll to the side and get to his feet but the rock wall itself had vanished. He slipped and fell as the ground revolted, and he was tossed into a steep tunnel. He was whirled through a steep fall, tumbling against the walls before he crashed into hard grounds. Creaky sounds and the rough texture of wood under his fingers was the first Boromir registered. He blinked, he lay on some wooden planks right beside a gaping abyss, it had to be kind of bridge or platform.

 

It was dark around him. Boromir could hardly see; whatever light existed down here fell from holes in the far off cave ceiling and was vague, like the light of a cold pre-dawn. A pained whine made him turn, his horse had been caught in the hard fall before him, lying on the platform at his back. Kneeling down beside the wounded animal, Boromir carefully stroked the Westwind’s flank. The animal tried to get up, shaking the creaky platform. Boromir pressed his hand firmly against the stallion’s neck. “Drágo, Brawler… drago…”  the horse stilled at the command, he had been trained to play dead when ordered to. Carefully Boromir took stock of Westwind’s state.

 

 Even in the bad light down here, it was not hard to realize the extent of the injuries: the legs were bent and broken, a wooden spike had impaled his mount, and it was suffering for it. Taking swift mercy on the injured horse was the only thing he could do – even if the fall had happened above ground, the chances to heal such a horribly wounded horse were slim. He had seen such wounds on battlefields before and sometimes the best mercy the rider could give was ending the suffering of the poor beast. He knew that any hesitation on his part would only prolong Westwind’s suffering, that his comrade deserved better than to be left to a slow agonizing death. Careful, Boromir kneaded his fingers into the mane, his words to the animal were gentle. He kept up a stream of words, their meaning unimportant, as it was the steady tone that mattered, as it helped to calm Brawler.He could do nothing more to thank his faithful friend that had carried him on that long lonely journey, before he ended the horse’s suffering.

 

The horses’ powerful body stilled, the last breath gone. Boromir patted the horses neck, a gesture much like the goodbye for a fallen comrade. “Farewell,” he knew it was strange to treat his mount with almost the same respect he’d give any fallen comrade, but he still did it. He had already buried too many comrades to pass by another fallen without a word at least.

 

Noises rose behind him and he got to his feet. Figures emerged from the darkness, no more than silhouettes in the shadowy surroundings, and while he had a hard time discerning more than shapes, they saw him, paused, and suddenly high-pitched shrieks echoed through the tunnels. For one moment, he froze in surprise. Orcs! These were Orcish voices… but he was hundreds of leagues away from Mordor’s borders! How was this even possible?

 

Two small figures rushed forward, trying to jump him. All doubts or wonderings fled his mind as he reacted to their attack. He kicked the first one off the ledge, more in reflex than anything, and grabbed the second to toss it right after, the shriek of the creature echoing through the vast, dark cavern.

 

Boromir used the short moments this gave him to draw his sword. More Orcs, a whole dozen of them, came at him across the ledge. They were smaller than Mordor’s legions, but swifter, too. Making the best of the situation, he advanced on the narrow ledge, forcing them to come at him in pairs. He had stood against superior numbers before, and while there was no fear in him as he faced them, he could not help but wonder where they came from and what strange dark place he was stranded in. They rushed at him armed with daggers and coarse curved swords. Boromir blocked their attacks, his sword a whirling circle of death, stabbing, cutting, slashing through their numbers, corpses falling off the ledge and vanishing into the dark abyss below.

 

It ended as fast as it had begun the sudden silence deafening to his ears; only the ledge under him creaked. Boromir frowned. What was this thing anyway? His eyes had adjusted to the darkness down here and he could finally see more than just his immediate surroundings. It seemed he was standing on some coarse bridge of wood and ropes spanning a massive chasm. The bridge creaked under his feet. A board snapped when he stepped on it hard, and he had to snatch hold of the fraying rope to prevent himself from falling. There were other boards he had to nearly jump across because they were already broken. Had there been a cave-in recently? That would explain the vanishing wall earlier and the unstable bridge. Even Orcs – crude monsters that they were – built better constructs than the one he was standing on. Boromir had seen enough of their dens in the Ered Lithui to know. Carefully, he followed the bridge towards where it connected with a rocky ledge on a steep cave wall. He had to find a way out of here.

 

The rock ledge was only marginally better than the rickety bridge before. Crumbling and full of cracks, it had been repaired with more of those wood bridges, many as rotten as the first had been. They swung under his feet as he walked; often he was not sure if they would support his weight at all. He craned his neck to look up from whence he had fallen, but except a hole in a huge cavernous ceiling he could not see anything. And most of that ceiling was shrouded in darkness. The stone walls of the caves were roughly hewn and uneven. There were no markings, no signs like the Mordor Orcs used to mark their tunnels, nor any other system of direction, only a chaos of ways and tunnels. Where they might lead, he could not begin to guess.

 

Where was he to begin with? He wondered, this did not look like any Orc barrack he had ever seen, nor like an underground fortress of sorts. Much more like a gigantic natural chasm filled with odd contraptions. How was he supposed to find his way out of here? A cold, discouraging doubt spread inside him as he continued onwards. Tunnels and ledges were followed by bridges and pillars in dark chasms, and with no hints where these paths may lead, he knew he was continuously getting lost in these dark reaches if he were not careful. Unfortunately he was not Faramir who never lost his sense of direction even blindfolded in a cavern under the Ered Lithui. How his brother achieved this marvelous feat had always been beyond Boromir.  He tried the simpler version of the same and to stick to one course, vaguely keeping to the left, which felt like the direction he had come from, but the further he went, the more he lost his sense of orientation.

 

A shriek, shrill and angry, rose from the dark of yet another tunnel entrance only a few steps ahead of him. Boromir wondered how much longer he could manage to remain undetected. In the dim light he could see a mass of bodies emerge from the tunnel’s mouth. Fire and Blood, there were so many of them! He turned, running the other way, jumping from the bridge onto another ledge, and raced on. There were more adversaries coming his way. He fought them off, sword cutting through them with grim determination. Rounding another corner, he found the bulk of the horde chasing him again.

 

Boromir ran through the dark, the rickety bridges streaking under his feet, screams of Orcs echoing in the tunnels. He did not know how many he had killed, nor how many were still after him. He had lost his sense of direction, and no longer knew where he was going, if he ever had to begin with. Several Orcs spilled from a side tunnel; he attacked before they could, killing two before having to shake off the others. A blunt blade cut his arm – not the first scratch he had received. He kicked the creature off the ledge, hastening on.

 

Jumping down from one ledge to a bridge below Boromir swiftly ducked into the shadows, he heard the Orcs trample by above him, their shouts echoing off in the distance. Releasing a slow breath he crept on, ahead he could see a new tunnel. Was there ever an end to them? A strange thought came to him – what if this vast chasm reached under the whole breadth of the Misty Mountains and he only found an exit on the other side? No, it would take at least a week on foot to get to the other side and he’d be dead by then if he did not find water in this place.

 

He shook his head, the Orcs needed water too and usually had wells in their dens, all he’d need to do was find one of them. Still, he was alone in maybe the greatest Orc den he had ever encountered and his hopes of escape were slim. The tunnel opened before him to a large crossing of pathways. A few torches lit the sandy crossing littered with crude carvings in the stone. A few of the strangely small orcs of this place where lingering in the crossing. Boromir ducked deeper into the shadows, he would have to wait for them to move on.

 

“I say, Shagrat you are making too much fuss of yourself!” One of the Orcs spoke and Boromir was surprised to hear him speak in a crude version of Westron. “Tell your Master at Mt. Gundabad that we do not have HIM here.”

 

“Ah, Breshgnat and who shot your little piglets at the upper entrance? HE is here, I tell you.” A larger Orc replied, his voice was more guttural and gurgling. “And my Master wants him.”

 

“He can want all he wants if he does the catching.” A third orc spoke up, gleefully rubbing his hands. “but he did not get HIM the last time and not the one before.”

 

“You are only stupid enough to go robbing where you’ll be hunted,” the big Orc barked. “and then they come after you with fire and axes and hunt you underground like in the old days. Mark my words, they are a worse blight on your tails than the elves.”

 

Boromir frowned, trying to make some sense out of the Orc’s debate. It seemed to be different groups arguing over a captive or catch. But he could not see anyone except the orcs on the crossing. He grabbed the hard rock of the wall, to steady himself, there was no use in hoping to find a captive he could free, just to be less alone in this dratted place. He had endured months on his own with no to watch his back he would go on alone to the very end.

 

“We did not get caught, Shagrat,” one of them spoke again. “we got away clean, with none of the longbeards following all while you and your Master wasted time on sending messages all across the Mountains. Like this was the old days when there still was a big boss up North.”

 

“There might soon be one again, Breshgnat, there is orders coming from High Up, they are here and  they want…”

 

“And you always listen for orders from High Up,” the other orc mocked. “High up lets things slip and it is us who’s got to see them done after.”

 

The orcs finally moved off, still arguing about Him and Orders and about what they wanted, Boromir waited unmoving in the shadows until they were off into another direction. Keeping towards the left Boromir followed another tunnel, it was warmer and smelled of fire and dirt, the stench of the Orcs was stronger here than up in the cavern where the greater volume of air had dispersed it.

 

The rancid smell stuck in his throat, recalling unpleasant memories of other places in the deeps under the Mountains of Shadow. The tunnel was empty and Boromir became more successful in sticking to the shadows, to avoid being seen. Though in his heart the unease grew, he could not ignore the tight feeling constricting his chest, all this reminded him all too vividly of the day he had crawled from the dungeons below Minas Morgul.

 

He passed through tunnels and over ledges, climbing up the walls two times towards higher ledges, hoping he could eventually reach an exit.  After hours and hours of sneaking through the darkness he was exhausted, and when he reached the next bridge, he noticed the silence. Yes, it was unusually quiet in this tunnel, he had not realized it at once but now the deafening silence fell on him like a sticky blanket. The only noise he could hear was his own breath and the creaking of the wooden contraption beneath his boots, which was older than others he had seen down here.

 

He stopped, wondering whether he should continue. If this path led even farther into the mountain, his chances of finding an exit were waning with each plank he stepped across. But going back wasn’t an option, not with the number of Orcs inhabiting these caves. He peered back into the dark where he knew more Orcs were lying in wait. Going back meant certain death, once they found him, and going forth meant getting lost. He had never felt more alone or farther from home than in this moment in the dark under the mountains.

 

As he moved ahead he saw that the bridge he crossed was not just rickety, it must have been badly damaged a long time ago and it seemed never to have seen any useful repairs. Carefully, Boromir stepped on the failing construction; it creaked loudly but bore his weight. He began to walk, each step shaking the ancient crossing. When he was halfway across, he heard fierce howls and angry shrieks from behind. A few Orcs had come out on a higher ledge, shaking their swords at him and hurling stones in his direction. Boromir ducked, moving on with more haste, disregarding the feeble bridge beneath his feet.

 

That proved to be a grave mistake – only a few running strides out, the ancient wood broke under his step. Only one step further was enough and a board broke under his feet, the ropes frayed and the entire construction collapsed. He fell into darkness, desperately trying to somehow slow the deathly fall. Shards of wood spiked the air around him, pricking his body whenever he flailed his arms, blindly seeking the side of the cavern, a rope tethering a bridge, a plank of sturdy wood – anything that wouldn’t shatter under his weight. His hands managed to grab the protruding rocks of another ledge, his own weight ripping against his shoulders; he was hardly able to prevent himself from letting go under the cruel jolt running through his shoulders. Still his hands clung to the stones that were like honed knives, cutting into his palms without mercy. Grunting, teeth clenched against the pain, he barely managed to hang on.

 

A spear flew from the darkness, shattering on the stones beside him. Boromir tried to pull himself up, but another spear missing him only by a hair’s breadth nearly made him fall again. A sharp hiss sounded from the ledge above his rapidly numbing fingertips: the familiar whistle of arrows. Somewhere behind him, Orcs shrieked as their bodies dropped into the darkness. One foul smelling creature nearly landed on Boromir; as it was, the Orc slammed into his shoulder, and Boromir was jostled into almost relinquishing his precarious hold on the rocks. Another arrow hissed into the darkness, resulting in another corpse dropping into the chasm. For one single exhausted moment Boromir imagined that Faramir had found him even in this place and had come to get him out. But this was neither an Orc barrack nor was this the Mountains of Shadow, these were the Misty Mountains and he was still in danger.

 

“That will teach the black brood,” a deep bronze voice grumbled speaking in a soft, rich accent that Boromir had never heard before. He had heard many dialects of the Common Tongue before, but none with this almost musical quality to it. A figure appeared above him. A faint light made him blink hard, he could not really identify what kind of source the pale light on the edge had. But surprised by the fresh light, Boromir could not see much more than a head and shoulders, both cast in shadow, but he felt a strong hand grabbing his arm, supporting his fleeting hold. “Grab my shoulder; I’ll pull you up.”

 

The relief Boromir felt flooding through him nearly made him lose his tenuous hold on the rocks. It seemed too much like good fortune to have been found by anyone other than Orcs in these depths. He did not waste time, and used what strength he had left to grab the stranger’s shoulder, and was pulled up by surprisingly strong arms. Few men would have so easily been able to lift him like that. Not a moment later he was on stable ground. “That’s better,” the stranger said, grabbing his pack that he must have dropped when he came to Boromir’s aid. He also picked the source of the light up, a small white crystal that illuminated their immediate surroundings. .

 

Boromir blinked into the light of the flame. His helper was strange: standing, he did not even reach Boromir’s shoulder, though he carried a blade and an axe on his back and the way he stood left little doubt that he was absolutely comfortable with the weapons. Certainly not someone to discount for diminutive stature. His hair was long and fell freely around his shoulders… and was he really wearing braids at his temples like a maiden? Something about him seemed off to Boromir, it was something in the stature, like all the proportions were slightly off and the way he stood, like firmly grown into the rocky ground of the cave, he saw it all but it took him a moment to realize that this was most likely not a man at all but a Dwarf. He had never seen one before, except in pictures and drawings in Faramir’s books. “You are a Dwarf.” The words were out before he could stop them.

 

The stranger bowed slightly. “Kíli, at your service,” he said. “I had certainly not expected anyone but Orcs in these deeps. Most Men are smarter than to stray into the deeps of Goblin Town.”

 

Goblin Town? So there was a name to this den? The words were a warning to Boromir right away. This stranger… this dwarf was all too comfortable in this place. He might have helped Boromir, but his motivation remained unclear. Yet, without him Boromir’s chances to escape this den was virtually nonexistent. “I did not plan on coming here,” he said, not giving his name in turn. It might be rude, but who cared for manners amongst the Orcs?

 

“Whoever does?” The dwarf replied, turning towards a tunnel. “Are you coming? Or do you wish to stay and have an audience with his Malevolence?”

 

There was something in his grim humor in that voice that Boromir found not entirely disagreeable. Having no other choice he followed the dwarf as he began to stride up a tunnel that led away from the ledge. “I hardly had expected someone down amongst the Orcs either,” he said, wondering what had brought the dwarf into these deeps. He was not sure what to think of the coincidence of his rescue, it was a little too lucky and that alone made it smell like an Easterling plot.  

 

“Goblins, these are Goblins and they raided two settlements recently, I came to return the favor and to repeat a lesson, that they are always slow to learn:” Kíli ducked under a low ceiling arch, his bow came up and two arrows fired in rapid progression, killed two more Orcs… Goblins. “that hurting my people ends with even more pain for them and their ugly kind and each dead dwarf is paid for in ten dead Orcs.”

 

“One man going after a raiding band?” Boromir had drawn his sword, ready to fight if necessary, but the dwarf had picked off the two guards of the next hallway.

 

“There is no strength in numbers,” Kíli’s comment sounded like a quote that he was just repeating, “and if they come after my people I will hunt them. Not that I expect them to ever learn.”

 

There was something in the way he spoke about his people that struck a chord in Boromir, he might not be able to tell if someone spoke the truth outright, but these words had a confident echo, a tone of voice that convinced Boromir the dwarf meant them. And it reminded him of the conversation of the Orcs he had listened to. “They spoke of that, they were sure that they had not been followed by the Longbeards…” Of course – they must have meant dwarves, it could be an epithet for them. “but why the spoke common, I cannot fathom.” The last part was a test, a shot into the dark to see how the dwarf reacted. If the whole situation had been set up, he might give himself.

 

Instead Kíli stopped. “They spoke Westron? Strange, they only do that if they have no other choice? What Orc tribes were present? Goblins? Mountain orcs? Northern Tribes?”

 

“Two were Goblins as you call them, small and pale, and the third was bigger, Shagrat was his name and he was from another places they named…” Boromir tried to recall their arguing. “Mt. Gundabad. I think he was here for a prisoner of sorts… he said his Master wanted Him.”

 

There was a subtle change in Kíli’s mien, the jaw setting in a grim line like he had a good guess what this meant. “So Bolg is up on hunting again, I should have guessed.” He turned and took the lead as they headed into the dark again. His crystal gave minimal light, hardly allowing Boromir to see where they were going.

 

“So Bolg is he the Master he spoke of?” He tried to work out some sense in what he had heard. “His Malevolence as you called him before?”

 

Suddenly the dwarf barked a grim, had laugh devoid of any humor. “No. His Malevolence is the Great Goblin, King of Goblin Town – nasty piece of work and cruel if he can get his hands on you. Bolg is the King under Mt. Gundabad and the biggest problem North of Framsburg, except you count the Great Troll down in Ettenmoors into the list.”

 

“Goblins have Kings?” Boromir had heard many things, of raiders and robbers but an Orc styling him as a King? That sounded like the Orcs had the run of the Mountains.

 

“What’s new in that? They did that ever since they took Mt. Gundabad.” Kíli climbed over the rubble of a cave in with the deftness of a Mountain Lion, never slowing down.

 

Boromir fell silent as they went on. Kíli’s pace was steady, never faltering, even when the gaping darkness to either side of them indicated the presence of other tunnels, and Boromir had the distinct impression that Kíli had traversed these passages many times before.

 

Dwarves were said to be at home under the great mountains of the west, after all. The notion was strongly reinforced when their path began to lead upwards and a fresh breeze of cold air touched this face. They passed through a narrow gap in which Boromir had to bend almost double to squeeze by, and suddenly they stood outside again. It was dark – night had fallen but the rain had passed.

 

Kíli did not give them any time to catch a breath or stop, the dwarf headed on, racing down a soggy, narrow path winding down the slopes towards the edge of a forest. Boromir followed him, tired though he was he was glad to be out of the caves and while he still was wary of his new companion, he had gotten him out of the Goblin’s dens and that counted in his favor.

 

In the end, Boromir did not know how long they ran, the longer they hurried down the long hill slopes the more he felt the pain from his injuries, he had to shift more weight to the right leg because the other was paining him. When the sun rose behind the high Mountains, the first rays falling on the land around them, it finally ended. Boromir was tired, stumbling with exhaustion and glad that they finally came to a halt. They had reached a wide vale of woods and rocks; some grassy patches in between were yellow with the dying grass of summer.

 

Kíli exhaled sharply and turned back to him. It was the first time that Boromir got a look at him that was not obscured by the darkness in the caves. The dwarf’s face was framed by a wild mane of hair, a few grey streaks mingled with the dark locks – strange, his face did not reflect the age of someone already greying, even though it was set with a few deeper, pleasant lines. The short-cropped beard was barely a shadow and not quite what Boromir would have associated with a dwarf. He wore chainmail and a leather coat, both well worn. “Let’s find a place to hide and rest.”

 

“Are you sure we got far enough away from them?” Boromir asked in spite of his exhaustion. “There may be more Orcs nearby.”

 

“Show me one place in the lone lands where they aren’t close…” Kíli growled. “I still know some hideouts that they haven’t found yet… Daylight will be a much better protection against them.”

 

The hideout proved to be a tall, pillar-like rock with a den deep enough to hide a small fire behind the top. How Kíli managed to light the still-dripping timbers to burn was another matter entirely. Boromir had the impression the dwarf had barely looked at the wet logs and the flames sprang to life. “Where did they capture you?” Kíli asked as he fed branches as thick as his palm into the flames, which snapped and hissed, almost white as they devoured the fresh wood.

 

“They didn’t. I hid from the storm in a cave,” Boromir explained, sitting down against the rock, the warmth of the fire a welcome change from the cold. “after I fell asleep the ground vanished and landed on a platform somewhere in the caves. I tried to find a way out until I met you.”

 

There was something akin to grim amusement shining in Kíli’s dark eyes. “The very same happened to some of my kin once and landed us right in Goblin Town as well, audience with his Malevolence included. Most caves in these parts are dangerous.” Seated relaxed across the fire from Boromir the dwarf surveyed him, his face not unfriendly but hard to read all the same. “What brings a son of Gondor so deep into the lone lands?”

 

There was that word again – the lone lands: a term that made Boromir shiver. Was that all that was left of Arnor and her glory? Even of her memory? A land overrun by Orcs, given up upon by everyone? “I am on my way to Rivendell. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, has sent me there. I kept to the mountains, hoping to find it.”

 

“Rivendell?” Kíli leaned forward, one arm resting lightly on his knee. “You are leagues and leagues off your trail, Son of Gondor.”

 

“I realised that when I came across the Goblins,” Boromir replied a bit more sharply. He hated it when Faramir pointed out his lack of proper orientation in the wilds, but hearing it from a stranger was even worse.

 

“If the Elves call a place the hidden valley, it is hard to find,” Kíli observed dryly. “And the path leading from the mountains into Rivendell is even harder to find than the Bruinen ford.”

 

“You know where it is?” Boromir asked, his hopes kindled once more. While he still was wary of this dwarf with the strange name, he was not in a position to disregard help of any kind.

 

“Aye, I came through there years ago with my kind.” Kíli deftly placed an old iron pot in the fire and for a moment Boromir believed to see flames dancing on the Dwarf’s arm. It had to be a trick of the light. “You are far off your road, Boromir of Gondor, for you have strayed far to the north, but I will help you to get to Imladris, if you’ll have me.”

 

Boromir looked up and across the flames met the Dwarf’s eyes. “I never told you my name,” he said, suddenly tense again. His hand fell to his sword, fingers curling around the hilt. No one could have known he was here, and a stranger met in an Orc den might as easily be a servant of the Enemy.

 

If Kíli had seen him go for the weapon the dwarf had not reacted at all.“No – but that sword you wear was commissioned by Turgon, Steward of Gondor for his eldest son. It has been wielded by the Steward’s eldest son ever since. I know, for Ecthelion had one of my kin make it.”

 

Boromir covered his going for the sword by drawing the blade and placing it across his knees to clean it of the Goblin filth. He was still surprised the dwarf had entirely ignored the sudden threat, either he had been sure of his answer or he did not fear Boromir in the least. Which was an unusual situation, Boromir was used to making even hardened Easterling leaders or Haradrim nobles nervous. Here he was a stranger with neither reputation nor legend attached to his name.

 

Something landed on the stones beside him, a rag and a small bottle of weapon’s oil. “Better use that, or the stench never gets off. Goblins are not creatures who wash.”

 

Boromir took it with a nod and turned to cleaning his blade. The sword had been passed onto him by his father, who had received it from Ecthelion, who’s father Turgon had it made long ago. The two-edged blade hardly ever went blunt and had never failed him in many a battle.

 

What Kíli had said was true, though –Turgon had a blacksmith from foreign lands make the sword because the man’s work had been unsurpassed.  Man, and here was the strange term in this, if Kíli’s words were true the maker of the blade had not been a Man at all but a dwarf. Studying Kíli who sat on the other side of the fire and was busy cleaning a white-hilted sword of similar dirt, Boromir noticed again that Kíli was not looking what any Man would expect a dwarf to look like. Maybe the bladesmith of old had simply not been recognized for a dwarf and never said he was one? “I’ll be grateful for what help you will give,” Boromir eventually replied to the offer to guide him to Imladris.

 

“Very well,” Kíli thrust his blade back into the sheath and placed it beside him on the ground. “we will camp here for the day. Goblins do not like sunlight, so these hours will be safest for resting. How bad are you injuries?”

 

“Mostly scratches and bruises, one surprised me by trying to use a strangling chord,” Boromir could feel the cut at his neck but it was nothing too serious. He did not like the idea of having to sleep in the vicinity of a near-stranger. “What about you?”

 

“The same,” Kíli replied, adding some fresh wood to the fire, before he deftly fished the pot from the fire. It was an old, banged up iron thing but when Boromir smelled the contents, he realized how hungry he was.

 

His glance must have given him away, because there was some amusement in the way the dwarf’s lips curled. “You must be hungry after that adventure.”

 

Boromir was hungry, he had not eaten in two days and felt like he had lived through longer without food. But… he had hardly paid attention to what the dwarf tossed into the pot. Like sleeping in the presence of a stranger, accepting food meant trust… a trust into not just some stranger, but also in a creature of a kind that he had encountered for the first time.

 

Kíli sighed, he must have interpreted his silence right. “Listen,” he said, his voice unmoved. “I cannot make you trust me, nor will you believe my word, I know your Numenóran kind, to know what you think of my people or our word. But if I wanted you dead, I could have left you where I found you, or simply kill you now and be done with it.” He poured the stew into two bowls from his pack, handing one Boromir and settled to eat.

 

For a moment Boromir fell silent, the words had been direct and to the point, and they were humbling. Whoever the dwarf might be, he had saved Boromir’s life and done nothing to warrant his distrust. Had he lived so long with the twisting plans of the Enemy that he could not stop expecting them in every corner? Wordlessly Boromir grabbed the bowl and began to eat as well. Until Kíli did not prove to be an enemy, he would try and trust him.

 


	3. The Death of Men

** Chapter 2: The death of men **

****

Boromir stopped at the end of the barely visible path. Ahead lay another wide valley. Grass, rocks, scarce trees and a view of rolling hills stretching to the horizon – that was what the north seemed to be composed of. He had seen many places, from the White Mountains to the southern coast, from the wide plains of Rohan to the foreboding, ash-strewn borderlands of Mordor, but he had not seen anything like this wild land. It touched something in him he could not name. Far off to the west, the tips of another mountain range cast blue and grey shadows into the autumn sky. “Those mountains, are they…?”

 

“The Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, near the ancient lands of Forlindon,” Kíli replied, catching up with him. While the dwarf was visibly at home in these parts and well familiar with the paths and trails of this land, Boromir was the faster marcher by a long stride. If the dwarf noticed at all, it did not seem to bother him, for someone of so much shorter stature he kept up with Boromir’s stride surprisingly well without showing outward signs of exhaustion.

 

“How long until we get to Rivendell?” Boromir did not want to sound impatient, but the sheer size of this land made him wonder.

 

“Two weeks, maybe three.” Kíli shrugged. “We need to steer clear of the Ettenmoors, and we don’t want to get any closer to the Trollshaws than we have to. And that means crossing Rhudaur until we can get to the Great East Road.” He moved ahead downhill, heading slightly more southwest than before.

 

“Rhudaur was part of Arnor,” Boromir mused. “Are there still people in this land who could aid us? Or provide horses?”

 

“Very few people live in this land – there may be a settlement here or there but I expect little help from them. A stable to sleep in is as much as we may hope for,” Kíli replied, picking up the pace, his stride was certainly shorter than Boromirs but all the quicker and he moved uphill and downhill with the natural ease of a mountain lion.

 

The day proved hard for Boromir, though not due to the march itself. He could keep up well with the seemingly inexhaustible dwarf, even as he was amazed at Kíli’s endurance, most men would have been exhausted from a march like that. No, it was the ruins that began to appear on the tops of hills or tucked between the vales that got under Boromir’s skin. Ruins of towers, of houses and bridges, remains of an entire civilization vanished, crushed in a dark storm centuries ago. His companion did not give them any notice or regard; he walked past the remains of this broken land without paying the slightest heed or respect. Many of the broken buildings showed signs of violent destruction, Boromir saw walls ripped apart by catapult stones, and towers that had collapsed as a result of wild fires raging inside, tumbled stones on a hillside betraying a wall that had been collapsed under troll ram and entire settlements that had been razed to their very foundations. He knew the story of the Witch King’s war against Arnor, but this was the first time he truly saw the results of it with his own eyes. Boromir hardly noticed Kíli shooting two hares that had strayed too close to their chosen path; there was little other wildlife visible here, in spite of the land being wild.

 

When they came around a tight turn of the path they suddenly were faced with a broken guard tower, they stone archway still rising high above the path, while the shattered stones of the once might watchtower lay scattered in the hillside, long sunken into the grass. Under the stone arch Boromir noticed a few rough letters carved into the stone crudely. VdR, the letters were curved into each other. _Varicil denár Rodayne._ Remember our Souls, it was one of the few Adûnaic phrases Boromir easily remembered, a soldier’s last plea to a faraway light before throwing himself against the dark hordes.

 

Stopping under the arch Boromir gently touched the stones with his hand, feeling the curved letters under his fingers. Traces of soldiers long fallen, fallen under a night that had no end, their homeland destroyed, their names forgotten…

 

A high pitched whistle startled him out of his thoughts. Kíli had stopped down the path, turning around to look for Boromir. High above him circled a hawk – it’s high shriek the whistle Boromir had heard. The dwarf looked up before turning his head again towards Boromir, like he was asking what the holdup was about. Boromir made a fist, the dwarf walked past the signs of destruction, past the ruins with the calm and disregard of someone untouched by what had transpired here, if he had any regard for the dead, for the tragedy that transpired here, he did not show it. Or did he simply not care because it was not his own people? What would a dwarf care about Menfolk after all? Walking out under the arch Boromir strode down the path, walking quicker than before, his anger translating into a faster stride than before.

 

“There.” The afternoon was already wearing late when Kíli pointed ahead. Down in the valley below them were a few ruins, remains of a wall and a tower. Boromir spotted the traces of a few stone houses that once had stood there. A small, well-defended settlement it had once been. Down in the deep ground of the valley he could see graves – the typical barrow mounds Arnor’s people had built for their dead. “We’ll camp there for the night. Easy to defend in case we have to.” Kíli said and Boromir wondered if the dwarf had even noticed the graves, or given the settlement any regard beyond the practical view. This had once been a thriving settlement, with people farming the land around the hills, with children playing in that yard down by the tower and probably with a market by the crossroads. Men had lived here, had married, had children and died… only now there was only death that remained, the destruction had reached them and no wall no matter how strong had held off the bloody hordes of Angmar.

 

“I’ll go and gather some wood,” Boromir said, heading past the dwarf and towards a patch of trees to their left. It did not take much searching to find a fallen tree and break it into serviceable chunks that would last long into the night. The work allowed Boromir to release some pent up emotions. Breaking up the hard wood was good to focus some of the ire he felt towards his companion, who walked through this sad land with the casual acceptance of someone who did not see the tragedy of what had happened to this place. How could he not see? Even for a dwarf, for anyone, the consequences of what had happened here should be obvious. Boromir could feel the pain almost physically. Maybe he felt it more deeply because he knew that Gondor was faced with a similar dark enemy… was this all that would remain of them? A few ruins, with inscriptions that the passing wanderer could not read? A fallen land meaning nothing to those who passed its wilds? Boromir knew that if Gondor fell the Easterlings would annex the land and make it a part of their dark Empire, it seemed an ironic comfort that his enemies were known to record the history of their conquered lands meticulously, as a memento for generations to come.

 

 The sun was setting slowly when Boromir brought the last of the firewood to the tower. Kíli would hopefully have found water already. The last light of the sun touched the empty window in the tower’s west side, warm rays bathing it beautifully. For a moment, Boromir could imagine the tower still standing, people walking here, horses in the stables, guards… Steadying himself with one hand against the rough wall, Boromir nearly dropped the firewood, so intense had the picture been.

 

Kíli came out to help him, carefully taking the last of the wood from his grasp, giving him a nod that might have been meant encouragingly. . “Let’s get inside – who knows what will be creeping about after dark.”

 

“Is this all you care for?” Boromir snapped, his words sharper than he meant to. “This was once a village of men. People lived here. This was their homeland, and now look at it… broken, crushed… all but forgotten. Their entire homeland sunk to ashes.” He brushed past the Dwarf and walked inside. “They fought Angmar, and when they broke, who cared to remember?”

 

“In my experience, the world will not care for those broken or cast out.” Kíli’s words were grim, short, and did nothing to assuage Boromir’s stormy feelings.

 

“Not that the respect you are showing them is any better,” Boromir’s voice was sharp, anger clearly reflected in his words. The cold irony about the world not caring sounded like the worst mockery to him. Even the Easterlings showed more respect to their enemies. “but what does your kind care about after all?”

 

Kíli’s dark eyes flared dangerously, reminding Boromir vividly of coals in a glowing fire. “I have been fighting Orcs and Goblins in this land for decades, Gondorian,” his voice sank so deep that Boromir would have called it a growl, if a growl and speech did go along at all. “and I still do – to protect the settlements of my people and those of Menfolk still clinging to this land. Them I worry about, the living, those who built these ruins are long dead – removed from the pains and tears of this world. If this land ever will be safe enough to not having to worry about Orc raiders, trolls and Goblin thieves, there may be the time for the luxury to commemorate the dead.”

 

The intensity of the dwarf’s words surprised Boromir, beneath the calm demeanor lay a force to be reckoned with, he realised. “Are raids like the one you mentioned so common here?” he asked. How far spread were these Orcs and Goblins? Two thousand leagues north of Mordor and they seemed to have dominance over an entire region, that was worse than anyone in Gondor imagined the state Arnor was in.

 

“Two raids a month if we are lucky, the odd troll in between,” Kíli said with a shrug, squatting down beside the ancient fireplace, clearing away leaves and small rubble. “That’s strange…” His eyes narrowed.

 

“What?” Boromir asked impatiently, not seeing what in the pile of rubble on the fireplace was so strange, he might concede some points to Kíli but their discussion was not over by a long shot, and he was certainly not used to the other side declaring an argument over. Kíli had quite the confidence to treat him like any other warrior.

 

“These stones, they were placed here like this deliberately,” he explained patiently, like it was obvious, only the way he gazed up showed Boromir that the dwarf actually did not treat him like a child, there was a strange sincerity in his features. Boromir frowned, Kíli had a talent for distracting him from his anger that he thoroughly disliked.  “Someone wanted to make it appear that this fireplace had been buried under rubble a long time ago already.” He turned to his pack to produce some tool for digging up the fireplace.

 

“No.” Boromir stepped closer, forcefully putting a hand on the dwarf’s arm, preventing him from further digging into the rubble. “Whatever is buried in there, it probably belonged to the people who lived here. When they had to flee, they buried their possessions for the day they returned. We shouldn’t steal them.” He could see in Kíli’s gaze that the dwarf was about to point out that it was centuries ago and no one had returned. “I won’t be a part of stealing from those who’d be my people.”

 

Kíli shrugged and returned to building a fire, in a corner right under a broken window that could serve to carry away the smoke. It did not take long, and soon the fire flickered, the flames casting eerie shadows at the broken tower walls, their movements sometimes too reminiscent of people moving about. The two hares were roasting above the flames. Boromir had sat down a short distance from the fire, leaning his back against the old stones. He still felt it hard to calm himself.

 

“I know it is hard to bear,” Kíli suddenly spoke up, he too sat with the back to the wall, one leg drawn in and his arms leaning on his knee. His entire posture looked smaller than ever before. “To see the land of one’s people, one’s kind destroyed like this. To know no one will ever come home again… it hurts, and it should. But their memory is not dead, nor is this land entirely forgotten.”

 

“And how would you know?” Boromir asked, reining in his hard tone. He could see how Kíli had drawn in on himself, his entire bearing had become defensive… no not defensive, like he was trying to shield himself from something. The observation startled Boromir from his own anger and let the Captain snap into place, assessing Kíli much like he would one of his soldiers.

 

“More than two hundred years ago, the dragon Smaug attacked the dwarven kingdom Erebor, driving my people from their mountain home,” Kíli responded, his voice sinking low, to a dark, hushed whisper that still seemed to softly echo from the stones in the tower room. “They fled, wandering the wide world, working among men, settling here and there where they could find a place.” He looked up and while his mien had become withdrawn, distancing himself from the memories, as Boromir recognised the expression easily, his dark eyes were a different thing altogether, they echoed a crushing depth of sadness. “Me… I was born after, having never seen the mountain home. My mother and my uncle would tell me of the Lonely Mountain, of our homeland… and when they spoke of it, there was a pain, a great sadness in their eyes.”

 

Surprised, Boromir looked at the dwarf on the other side of the fire. His shoulders had sagged, like he wanted to curl in on himself and his head was half bowed, the eyes at the flames of the fire that reflected sparks in those eyes until they seemed to only mirror the flames. But there was something else – he had gone entirely too still, while he spoke he had distanced himself from the topic he talked about.

 

Slowly Boromir let the words reach him too, he recalled what history he knew of the dwarves. There had been a great number of displaced dwarves a bit more than two centuries ago. Many a good construction work in Gondor had been accomplished making use of these extra wandering workers. But beyond that he could not place the events Kíli spoke of, nor could he even try to identify the Mountain Home. Moria? That had been a great Kingdom of the dwarves, had it not? But there was another detail in Kíli’s tale that drew his attention. “Where was your father?” he asked, noticing how Kíli only mentioned his mother.

 

“Dead. He fell in battle against the Orcs in Azanulbizar when I was very young. My uncle was more of a father to my brother and me – the only father I can remember. He took us in and eventually helped us to settle in the Ered Luin.”

 

“Does he still live there?” Boromir had seen the far away mountain range, and wondered if there were any northern mountains yet unsettled by dwarves.

 

“No. He too fell in battle… as did my brother.” The last words were spoken so low, Boromir hardly understood them. Kíli’s eyes went away from the flames, his hand reaching for the stone wall beside him, like to steady himself. He drew a slow breath, than another before he actually looked at Boromir. “Hope does not die,” he added more firmly, though his voice still retained the dark, husky quality. “It was my uncle who led our people to reclaim the Mountain Home when I was a young warrior. Many then argued that we had a new home in the Ered Luin. We were even prospering after a fashion; why risk our lives for something dead and gone?”

 

“Because it is home.” Boromir spoke with conviction – he well understood what Kíli meant. He only wished he knew more of dwarven history, but whenever he had needed such tidbits of information – which had been nearly never – he had simply turned to his younger brother, who would provide them.

 

“Boromir? Are you all right?” Kíli had leaned forward, his arm now resting more relaxed on his knee, keen eyes all of sudden sharp and focused again. Boromir could see genuine concern in Kíli’s expression. Even after their rather terse conversation he cared enough to reach out, he was more of a good comrade than Boromir had expected to find on this road.  .

 

“I am – you just made me think of my younger brother.” To his own surprise, Boromir found himself smiling as he thought of Faramir. “He would know the kingdom you speak of, when it fell and when it was retaken – including your uncle who led you back there. He must have been a mighty warrior.”

 

“That he was.” Again there was the sadness in Kíli’s eyes, before it vanished much more swiftly than before. Boromir was no stranger to walling off emotions, he too had memories he did not like to think off, and he saw the signs of that clearly in the dwarf opposite of him. Kíli reached over the fire and yanked the grilled hare off the pick, handing it to Boromir. “Tell me of your brother. Is he a warrior like you?”

 

“No… he is more a warrior in your vein, a quick archer and swift runner.” Boromir’s thoughts went to his brother, who was thousands of leagues away. His missed Faramir, his company, his swift banter and his silent understanding.  “Faramir loves lore and learning, books and scrolls. He prefers wisdom over weapons. Were these more peaceful times, he would become a renowned scholar. How did you become an archer? Forgive me for saying so, but your people have little reputation with the bow, and more with their axes.”

 

Kíli barked a short, grim laugh that was devoid of any real humor. “I learned it during our travels. My mother took very ill when I was about thirty – that’s barely half grown up by dwarven standards. Sif, a former serving woman and now innkeeper, agreed to take care of her, but she could not handle two extra mouths to feed, let alone two young, rambunctious boys. So my uncle took us along when he went wandering again. We were old enough to help around the forge, and that way he could earn the money for Mother’s healing and keep us fed. For one whole long summer, we were camped outside that fortress of men that you call Dol Amroth, making swords, armor and horseshoes for some clash with Umbar. There was a young human – Berengil was his name – the son of some nobleman who had employed our uncle’s services. He would often come down to us in the evenings to talk – he taught me how to use a bow. My uncle approved, as it made me better able to defend myself on our wanderings.”

 

“Berengil of Dol Amroth taught you how to shoot?” Now there was a name Boromir could place, even as the man they spoke of was long dead and buried. He could not deny a measure of awe as he realised that Kíli was probably already older than any man could get and not yet at the end of his people’s lifespan. “He fell in a skirmish near Osgiliath decades ago.”

 

“His ancestors receive him with praise,” Kíli whispered softly, strange though the blessing sounded, it was spoken in such honesty that Boromir could not find it inappropriate. He was gazing into the flames, as if he was seeing the things he had spoken of in the fire’s dancing shades. The light of the flame was mirrored in his eyes and played upon his features, and with his eyes lost in the fire, Kíli’s mind seemed to wander away as well, for the guarded expression on his face melted away, making room for a more open expression, the stern mien relaxing into a mien that Boromir would have called vulnerable. Wherever Kíli’s mind was in this moment, it allowed him a glimpse at the person underneath the rougher exterior.

 

TRB

 

They had decided to keep watch during the early hours of the night and during the morning hours again, it was the most dangerous times and as much as they could manage between themselves. Boromir had offered to take first watch and Kíli had accepted his offer, curling up against the wall and falling asleep swiftly. The way the dwarf fell asleep nearly the moment he closed his eyes made Boromir wonder if he was more exhausted than he let on, while he had the impression that the dwarf had kept up easily all day, Boromir realised that his own anger had prevented him from really observing his comrade. He shook his head, it was a recruit’s mistake – no matter what personal anger a soldier might carry, it had to stay outside their unit lest it would rip them apart. If it had needed anything to keep Boromir awake, this did more than it’s work.

 

Midnight was already passed when he rose and went to check the windows and the broken door. Outside a pale moon had risen and soft wind moaned in the trees, otherwise there was nothing but silence. When Boromir sat down in his place again, he saw that Kíli’s sleep had become restless, he was not tossing or turning, but his hands had clenched and his breath was going ragged. His whispered words in his sleep that Boromir did not understand, probably it was his dwarven tongue that he spoke in thrall of whatever dreams he had.

 

Boromir was about to wake him when he was interrupted abruptly when a painful yell ripped apart the silence of the night. As though in answer, the rough, beast-like howling of a giant wolf .echoed through the night,

 

Kíli jumped to his feet. “Wargpack,” he snapped. “They are hunting again.” His voice echoed worries and uncertainty at the same moment. Another yell rang hollow in the silence of the night. It was much nearer than before, and Boromir heard quite clearly now that it was no Orc or goblin screaming, but a man. The voice was too distinct to be mistaken for anything else.

 

Boromir saw Kíli swiftly move towards the entrance of the tower, peering out into the darkness, his hand hovering above his quiver. He was not rushing outside to help, much as he seemed to want to, but assessing the danger first and Boromir concluded that a trap was as likely as a true case of a man in need. Kíli. “From where does it come?” he therefore asked.

 

“The other side of the valley, by the old tombs,” was the prompt answer. The howling ripped apart the night again, louder and more angry this time. The voices of the Orcs joined the angry chorus. Their blood hungry screams were carried by the wind, echoing through the darkness. “They have not caught him yet,” Kíli mumbled.

 

“Can we help?” Boromir asked, he had followed Kíli towards the doorway, using the opposite wall for cover as he tried to see anything in the darkness outside.

 

Kíli listened intently to the howls that were drawing nearer and nearer. “We can help him. Do we dare to? It is a whole bunch of wolves out there, and the Orc pack won’t be far behind.”

 

“What are we waiting for?” Boromir asked. He had not doubt that the warrior who had rescued him in the orc caves would leave someone else to the wolves.

 

“The dark take it, you are right,” Kíli growled, then they hastened outside. A chill wind was sweeping across the hillside. He took the shortest way down to the ruins of the old gravesite. “They are chasing him down the vale directly towards us. We can cut them off.” He jumped over a fallen tree trunk, agile as a cat, surprising, given his shorter legs, without slowing down.

 

They reached the valley ground; ahead of them, the shapes of the barrows stood in the darkness like shadows before an even grimmer night. The wind had picked up strength: cold gales whirled through the barrows, dead leaves dancing in the nightly air. The clouds were ripped apart by the gale and the pale light of the moon flooded over the barrows. In the silvery shine, Boromir saw a figure stumble towards them, and he did not hesitate to race towards him, supporting the man, no it was more of a youth who’s auburn hair was smeared with blood, in the last steps towards them.

 

A growl rose behind him and Boromir quickly nudged the young stranger a step forwards and moved between him and the growl of the wolf. He turned around to see a huge wolf-like creature with an Orc on its back racing towards him. The creature jumped but before it reached him, an arrow to the eye killed it. Boromir saw Kíli standing on one of the barrow mounds firing arrows into the darkness in rapid succession and with a deathly precession that would serve any Ranger proud. The angry Orc, now deprived of its mount, was upon Boromir within moments, who gave a desperate swing of his blade, and the head, still locked in a vile rictus, landed with an ugly squelch on the hard ground.

 

More angry howls rose. Quickly, Boromir ushered the injured youth into the relative cover of the barrow,  and Kíli jumped down from his elevated position at once seeing what Boromir was trying to do. He and Boromir were taking position left and right in the narrow opening between the two barrows, to block the Orcs from reaching the wounded man. Back to back they stood as the wargs swooped down. Boromir had never seen such creatures – Mordor did not use their kind, though stories of wolf riding evil men had been staple in his youth to scare impressionable children into being home before dark. It seemed ironic, back then it had only inspired him and Veryan to try and tame a hunting dog into a suitable mount of war. Never had he imagined what the true wargs might look like. They were huge, much larger than common wolves, with wide snouts and fierce fangs. Their paws were nearly as dangerous as their maws, for the sharp claws could easily rip through even armor. When the next jumped him, he ducked, ramming his sword into the beast’s belly. It worked but nearly ripped him off his feet, the weight of the falling beast pulling at his arms.

 

Yanking his blade free, dark stinking blood sprayed over the ground and Boromir was faced with two more wargs, drawing close in slower hunting steps, their heads lowered and their deep growls echoing threat and hunger evenly. He advanced at the first to attack, before the warg could jump again. Valar, these beasts were huge! He never had seen such creatures before, and finding a way to fight them effectively was like trying to fight a fell beast blinded. It had been a long time since he had fought an unknown foe, and these beasts were vile, powerful and very dangerous, as he was quick to learn. A cross-cut against the snout and the wolf leapt forward into a pained attack, Boromir did not give ground, but only moved to the side the very last moment, ramming his blade into the warg’s flank, coming about he beheaded the rider and then had to roll over the ground to evade the clawed paw of the next one. He stabbed his sword upward, with an ugly crunch it ate through the lower jaw and into roof of the mouth. The beast collapsed on him. He pushed against the stinking carcass but the warg was heavy and had him buried from the chest downward. The rider dismounted and Boromir frantically tried to draw his dagger, he had to get to rid of that Orc before it could come close.

 

The Orc raised his sabre but before his strike could fall, a shadow moved between him and Boromir, the curved Orc blade hitting the hard chainmail of the dwarf moments before the Orc was stabbed by Kíli. The dwarf turned and threw a knife to kill the next warg coming close, before he had enough time to pull the stinking carcass away and free Boromir.

 

“Don’t hug them,” the dwarf blocked another attack with his blade, allowing Boromir the space to get up.

 

Boromir pulled himself up and already killed the next Warg. “How many more are there?” he panted, these Wargs truly did hunt in large groups.

 

“I told you, an Orc pack will not far behind.” Kíli’s voice echoed some grim humor. “they hate being lonely. Welcome to Eriador.” The dwarf turned around to the other side to prevent a wolf from getting too close to their protégée

 

Boromir barked a laugh as he faced the next Orc rider who was irritated for a moment, which allowed Boromir to stab him before he could react.

 

Had Boromir not been hardened by a life fighting Mordor, he may not have lasted through that stand. The wargs had been first to swoop down, followed swiftly by Orcs. Their only luck was that these Orcs had no archers. Between the dark barrows, they were forced to attack in small groups, giving them a chance to cut through them as they came. Still, when they drew off at the hour of dawn, Boromir had been wondering if this would be their end soon enough. They both were injured, bleeding and exhausted. It was the sun which soon would rise that decided this fight in their favour.

 

He turned around to see Kíli lean heavily on his sword. The Dwarf had a gory gash in the left side and was pale as dawn itself. “Kíli.” Boromir hurried over, to support him. The gash was from the blad Kíli had stepped into when he protected Boromir from the warg rider. He guided him a few steps to sit down in the shadow of the barrow, but even doing that Boromir felt the blood running over his hand, the wound bled strongly.

 

“We need to get this bandaged swiftly, or you’ll bleed to death.” He said. “stay here, I will get our packs.”

 

“The other one…” Kíli protested, pressing his hand hard against the wound, to slow the bleeding.

 

“You first,” Boromir rose and raced back to the tower, to grab their packs. The fire had long burned out but no one had disturbed their camp. Autumn dawn was coming slowly, the grey light dim and filled with mists creeping from the brooks.

 

Dressing the wound was something that Boromir wished he had better light for, in the grey morning mists, he could not really check if anything was still stuck in the gash. The cut also crossed another scar, so the healing might prove complicated. He made swift work of the bandage, glad to see that the thick layer stemmed the bleeding successfully. When he was done, Kíli pulled down tunic and chainmail armor again.  

 

 “Let us see whom we saved and if he needs help too,” he said, pointing to the figure sitting on the ground, leaning against the cold side of the barrow. But this was a useless errand to make, as Boromir could clearly see the first rays of the rising sun reflected in the young man’s broken eyes.

 

TRB

****

“He was so young.” Boromir shook his head in resignation, he was sure the youth had been alive when he had pushed him into the shadow of the barrow, but he had died during the night. Had he even known that he was not alone? That someone was fighting to protect him, or had he simply given in to the hunt and died? No matter, he had been alone on the hour of his dying, even as two fighters who would have protected him were right beside. It was a soldier’s death, only that this youth was dressed like a farmer, he should never have had to fight a soldier’s battle. “What could have brought him out into the night to be hunted?” Again his eyes strayed to the corpse. The man… he hardly dared using the word, was young, barely twenty, if guesses could tell.

 

“That’s what I am wondering too.” Kíli was still sitting on a rock beside the barrow, taking care of Boromir’s injuries in turn. “There used to be a settlement about five leagues in the direction he came from. Not the friendliest place, I recall, but it sits right on the trail coming from Archet and leading to the old Framsburg pass.”

 

“Maybe someone there knows him – or can claim his body for burial.” Boromir harbored no illusions that they had they had the means to properly bury the boy. “At least they may know what drove him to travel at night.”

 

Kíli stood up. He was still pale from loss of blood but walked without aid, though he was still moving slower than he had before. “Let us gather our belongings and be on our way. The sooner we get there, the greater the chance they can recover the body before night falls again.”

 

An hour after dawn, the wind returned and strong gales parted the heavy mists that had enveloped the hills. This day Boromir did not walk ahead as he had done in previous days. Kíli had lost a lot of blood thanks to that gash in his side, it was half a miracle he was able to walk like that at all and so he kept to his companion’s side during their march. Sometimes he marveled on the dwarf’s endurance; they truly were made from stone – unbreakable. “Those wolves,” he began when the clear morning light was upon them. “What are they?”

 

“Wargs,” Kíli corrected, he was walking a little slower while they climbed a steep hill, each step in the precise rhythm with the next. “They are a remnant of Angmar – or some say even Angband itself. The Orcs have some alliance with them and use them to ride and track. When you have them on your trail, it is hard to shake them off – they find your smell. Their packs breed in the wilds north of the Ettenmoors – in the dark lands south of Carn Dum. I do not know why the eastern Orcs won’t use them.”

 

“An alliance? Are you saying these beasts think and speak?” Boromir did not doubt Kíli knew what he was on about, but he wanted to learn all he could about this new foe, and quickly. Who knew how much aid and auxiliaries Barad-Dur would be able to summon from the north?

 

“They do: they are Draugluin’s children, after all.” They had reached the hilltop and followed a winding path down on the other side. Boromir couldn’t help but notice that Kíli moved through this land with a familiarity of someone having lived here for a long time. “Wargs come by tribes united under one leader – at least at times. The white warg held all the tribes in thrall. They have been fractured for decades after the white warg fell… but recently there have been rumors of a new Wolfking having risen up north. Bad tidings if it proves true.”

 

“Are they in league with Mordor?” Boromir regretted speaking the name at once, for a cold gust of fell wind swooped over them. He shivered. Had the Dark Lord’s reach grown so long already that his touch could be felt in the midst of Rhudaur’s wilderness? He had always believed that this presence, the darkness was something Gondor alone had to face, so other lands would be peaceful still. But what he saw here, in the remnants of what once had been Arnor, was neither peace nor prosperity – it was war, maybe even the very same he had been fighting ever since he had been old enough to use a sword. If it was true, it was a disheartening thought.

 

“No one knows for sure but all evil creatures are drawn there. It wouldn’t surprise me.” Kíli stopped suddenly, his eyes on the ridge west of them. Smoke curled above it – not the smoke of hearth fires but the black smoke of a much bigger blaze slowly burning out. Without wasting another moment, Kíli began running, disregarding his injury entirely, Boromir following right behind. They made their way downhill and up the other side. There was a shepherd’s path up there and they quickly enough reached the hilltop. On the other side they could see the settlement – or what was left of it. Black smoke rose from the building, and the wind smelled of fire, ash and burned flesh.

 

Raising his arm, Boromir shielded his eyes from the smoke the wind drove towards them. “Could he have fled this?” He felt sure it had to be the reason why that nameless youth, they had left by the barrow mounds, had run into the night. Why the Orcs had been after him.

 

Kíli did not respond, but went on towards the smoldering ruins. Yet he did not enter them but stopped at the path leading towards them just outside the former village and squatted down. Boromir understood at once what Kíli was doing and was extra careful to not step into any tracks. The dwarf rose after a few moments, looking left and right. Eventually, he returned back to the path. “Orcs and Warg-riders – at least fifty, likely more,” he said, for the moment entirely focused on the tracks in spite of devastation before them. Boromir found it hard to do the same. He did not know how the dwarf could analyze so icily what had happened with an entire burned village before his eyes, yet Boromir could read the traces hard experience had wrought on the other warrior; he had learned to be calm in spite of everything. “Most of them came from the east and circled the village. And one rider on a horse”—Kíli pointed on the muddy path, eyes keenly surveying the grounds around them, searching for clues as to what had happened—“he met with three Warg-riders here, the Orc leaders most likely. They dismounted and…”

 

Boromir saw Kíli’s puzzled glance go to some larger divots in the mud that looked familiar to him. “They threw themselves into the mud,” he observed. “They were afraid of something – or they showed their submission. Orcs will do that when faced with fearsome power.” Boromir had seen Orcs do that before their Haradrim Captains, and even more so before the Easterlings. A Haradrim might have to enforce their supplication, Easterlings commanded it as a matter of course. Were there no similar leaders in the north? Orcs were rarely unsupervised; the Black Lands always had some commanders above them to keep the brood in line.

 

“I have never seen them do something like that.” Kíli frowned, his eyes still on the tracks. “They rose and turned…”

 

“Back to their troops and attacking the village. Whoever the rider was, he ordered them to attack.” Boromir could see that clearly. He asked himself what sick man or creature had loosened the Orcs on a human settlement, but the tracks clearly said what had happened. He had seen it happen before – raids on settlements in Ithilien, raids that would drag away hundreds of captives. Boromir had often fought to prevent such raids and he knew the bitter feeling of failure.

 

“Let’s look for survivors – it’s all we can do no.” He said, forcing himself to be calm, he would help no one by being angry, or by lashing out. If they kept their heads they might able to help the survivors. Maybe… Kíli seemed to know the lay of the land, if he could guess where the captives had been brought, they could think of a rescue.

 

The buildings were sweltering, small fires in between glowing timbers and still smoking ashes. There were bodies inside, badly burned bodies of people who had been trapped inside their scorched homes. Others lay outside, cut down by Orc sabers and axes. A few seemed to have been dragged to the center of the village square, where at least one of them had been nailed to the village tree. When Boromir headed that way, Kíli stopped him. “Don’t,” he said softly. “You don’t want to see that. They always have their sport if they can find the time for it.”

 

Boromir was tempted to shake off the hand on his arm and tell Kíli to stop patronizing him, but when he saw Kíli’s face he stilled the movement before it began. The look in the black eyes was all too familiar to Boromir, the pained, haunted look that shone in Kíli’s eyes told him the dwarf knew all too well what he was speaking of – of horrors he had seen and survived. He did not mean to patronize but protect a friend. “I have seen their handiwork before, Kíli,” he said, bridling the anger he still felt. “No one lives on the Dark Land’s borders and hasn’t.”

 

It was a nightmare, like a tale of terrors that was whispered about in the dark of night, not quite believed yet not quite disregarded either. Boromir had known the Orcs would have tortured the villagers for information and for fun – they were cruel beings – but this… He only understood what Kíli had meant with “their sport” when he saw some of the bruised and torn bodies. He shuddered, not wanting to think what these people had gone through before they had been permitted to die. And then there was the fire pit… Had the Orcs truly roasted some of their captives over the fires and eaten them? He had heard that they sometimes would eat their own kind.

 

Bile rose in his throat, he had seen many horrors the Orcs created, he had been in their hands before but this… the traces of them eating their victims, roasting them maybe even before they were dead, was something that raised a fierce, helpless anger in him.

 

In the heat still emanating from the buildings, the smell of the burned bodies hung all the heavier. There were no survivors here; whether this was cruelty or mercy was not to be said. Their departure from this world had already been needlessly brutal.

 

“Boromir, over here.”

 

He was grateful for Kíli’s call. The dwarf stood at the other side of the square, he rarely looked at the bodies scattered in the square, his focus was on something else – on the building he stood beside. It was one house that had been built from stone and was less damaged than the others. He was already moving aside some timbers that had fallen from the neighboring house and were blocking access. “This is Bran’s forge,” Kíli explained. “If he was still inside when the burning began…”

 

It was a sensible thing to build a forge from stone, and there might be someone alive inside, Boromir would admit – if the Orcs had not searched the place beforehand. Usually the Orcs were rather thorough in capturing all they could. But then… what did he know of the northern Orcs? And even if it was true – Kíli seemed to know the owner of the forge, and he _had_ to check, to see for himself that there were no survivors. Boromir understood that and wordlessly helped to clear away the timbers. The dwarf was far less uncomfortable between the fires and the hot ash: he often would grab still glowing timbers and move them without the slightest hesitation. Even with the thick leather gloves he wore it was surprising to see, he did not shy away from the flame.

 

From the inside Boromir could hear a low groan, the first sound of a living being in this wretched place, Kíli had known or guessed right. Boromir grabbed another piece of timber and yanked it aside, he would need to learn this enemy – the Orcs of this land – entirely anew, they were nothing like the ones he could predict without thinking about it. Working faster, they soon could enter what had been the main forge. Leaning against the back wall sat a broad-shouldered man, a spear through the shoulder nailing him to the wall, his face pale. Two dead orcs lay inside the forge as well. The blacksmith had not been taken without a fight.

 

“Bran!” Kíli exclaimed, hurrying to his side, he knelt down beside the wounded blacksmith. The way he reached for the man’s broad shoulder, with a gently, comforting touch, told Boromir that they might have been friends, or at least had known each other well enough.

 

“Kíli…” The redhead coughed. “Whom are your bringing? You usually don’t run in the company of Rangers.” His eyes pointed towards Boromir, who handed Kíli one of their water-skins, who knew how long the man had been stuck here in the heat?

 

“Do be quiet, Bran, and hold still. I’m going to pull that spear out. Boromir, we need to bandage him quickly or I fear he will bleed to death.”

 

“Too late.” Bran groaned as the spear was pulled out in one go. Boromir pressed the bandage cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding but the black blood seeping from the wound soaked it quickly. “The spear was poisoned,” Bran panted. “They did not want survivors. We had not seen them… and still they wanted no survivors.”

 

Kíli, too, saw the black blood on the bandage and met Boromir’s eyes. The quiet shake of his head was all Boromir needed to tell that it was exactly as the man had already feared.

 

“Can’t we do anything?” Boromir askedhis hands curling up to fists there had to be something they could still do, to save this brave man. “Cauterize the wound? Clean it?” Even if the man lost his arm, it might help save him from the spreading poison. The healers of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith had saved Boromir a couple of times from Orc poisons, even from a poisoned Southron arrow once, but he had always been in their reach and had never asked how they had managed to pull him back from the brink of death.

 

“Had we found him within an hour or two of the injury, maybe,” Kíli stated grimly. “Now I doubt even an Elven healer could save him.”

 

“It’s too late for me, Kíli.” Bran looked at the dwarf, his face relaxing slightly into a resigned expression. “It is like you to come here to help at the first sign of trouble. But this time it’s truly too late. I… I wouldn’t want to live when all my people have been butchered.” A shiver ran through his body, herald of a cold creeping into his bones. “But we truly did not see them.”

 

“See whom?” Kíli asked his voice softening. The dying man had leaned against Kíli and Boromir saw how the dwarf held him, comforting the last agonized moments of the dying blacksmith. Either Kíli had truly known him well, or he had an amazing capacity for compassion, in spite of the cruelties that surrounded him.

 

“A rider came here two days ago,” Bran whispered. “He came from Archet, following some people who had been seen there. He searched for them. We had not seen anyone on the Archet road in days and days. He did not believe us. In the night, he brought the Orcs down on us.”

 

“Who was the rider?” Boromir asked, remembering the tracks outside the village. Somewhere in his heart a strange warning unrest grew, like he should recognize something, something that was obvious but that he still was missing.

 

“I don’t know. Black horse… black cloak, strange voice.” Bran coughed again, his entire body shaking. He grasped Boromir’s hand with the desperate strength of a man on the threshold of death. “I swear we did not see anyone. No one. We have not seen Baggins.”

 

“Baggins!” Kíli nearly shouted the word, startling Boromir, who had kept his guard against any Orcs coming back. When he turned around he saw that Kíli was pale, his eyes wide in disbelief.

 

“They are searching for Baggins...” Bran’s words fell to a whisper; his breathing became a hiss before his body sacked to the side, and death followed swiftly.


	4. Under night's wings

** Chapter 3: Under night ** ** ’ ** ** s wings **

****

With two strokes of his mighty axe, Kíli cut through the beams still supporting the roof, collapsing the failing rooftop on the building. It was the only grave he could give Bran – the only grave pressing time would permit. Ashes flared up when the building collapsed, but Kíli paid them no heed. He picked up his pack and cast a glance towards Boromir before he set off west, where the path to Archet wound through the vales. He did not follow it, but chose the shorter if harder route uphill.

 

Boromir followed him swiftly. He did not know where Kíli was going but did not ask. He had no idea what a Baggins was – a thing, a creature, maybe a place, even. But he had recognized the fear in Kíli’s eyes, when the word had been mentioned. It was a well familiar fear when someone suddenly realized someone or someplace close was in danger from the Enemy. Under almost any other circumstances, he would have asked his companion for directions to continue to Rivendell and given his own quest priority. But not now. For one, he owed Kíli his life for the rescue in the caves, not to mention the fight against the Wargs and also… the burned village still haunted his mind. This land was wild: there was no one, no king nor steward, to send troops to drive off the pillaging Orcs; there was no city to flee to or find aid at. These people were standing on their own, on what little strength they could muster, and Boromir felt compelled to, at least, not allow more harm to come of this.

 

Had Boromir believed that the Dwarf had been marching at quick speeds before, he now learned what it looked like when Kíli truly made haste, and seemed to know little exhaustion. Though he still was easing off his left side when he walked, he had no regards for his own injuries any more, and his stiff marching speed was swift even for Boromir. Only when night fell did Boromir began to guess why. They had reached another dale, like so many others they had crossed before. But this too held a settlement. Small though it was, it consisted of a number of low, sturdy stone buildings, and some other buildings that reminded him of a crushing mill. He spotted a dark hole in the hillside. A mine!

 

When they came down the hillside towards where a path led past the two outermost buildings into the settlement itself, they were suddenly cut off by two small armed figures, not quite five foot tall, axes in hand. One, with a long black, if wild, ponytail, advanced forward in the path, axe raised, the sharp edge shining in the light of setting sun, ready to cut them down on the spot. Boromir saw the threat from him and his companion who hung back and readied the crossbow, he stepped closer to Kíli the hand sinking to the hilt of his sword.  

 

But bot dwarves they relaxed visibly when they saw Boromir’s companion. “Kíli,” the one with the ponytail said in a deep, gravelly voice, lowering his weapon. “It is good to see you.” The Dwarf bowed swiftly and respectfully.

 

“Bladvila, well met indeed, it is good to see you again.” Kíli greeted the other Dwarf; with a clasp around his forearm. “I wish I were bringing less grim tidings. Watchhill was burned by Orcs only last night. I need to speak to Bofur right away.”

 

“So that’s why you travel with a Ranger,” Bladvila observed grimly. “Go down to his house; I’ll send word for him. He may still be downhole.”

 

“Thank you, Bladvila. And be on your guard – these Orcs were searching for someone.” Kíli gave Bladvila a light clap on the arm before leaving.

 

They headed down into the settlement. Boromir paid close attention to what he saw as they passed through. Grey field stones had been used to pave the main ways of the village, and all buildings were built from the same grey material. The houses were not beautiful, not even nice, but they were sturdy, thick-walled, with stone roofs and small windows. They had been built with defense in mind. Other buildings belonged clearly to the settlement’s operation. He saw a mine, crushing mill, a smeltery. The tip, where the dead rock was piled up, was on the other side of the dale. There was a channel of water canalized neatly alongside the valley. He should have known the crushing mill that was used to break the stones for processing needed water.  “A copper mine?” he asked, seeing some of the material at the crushing mill.

 

Kíli’s walk had slowed somewhat and there was a slight, if well covered, stiffness in his steps now. He was keeping all strain off his left side. “Iron, mostly,” he said as they passed down a steep winding road paved with field stones.

 

It made sense: most iron mines had a fair chance to prosper, as iron was always in demand. While they walked, Boromir could not help notice the many different Dwarves he spotted at work all around. There must have been a good thirty or forty of them and very few resembled the drawings he recalled from Faramir’s books. None looked quite like Kíli, either. They all seemed to have propensity for hair, though – thick, wild, sometimes braided, mingling with long beards, the way some of them had braided and shaped their hair seemed downright impossible. Not to mention that some had long manes like Kíli or Bladvila that would be the envy of every maiden South of Rohan. But very few had Kíli’s very short beard, and their faces were of less regular features. But what stood out most of all was the stature. After meeting Kíli Boromir would have deemed him strong, of powerful built, but compared to these dwarves he was rather lean, almost slender. Many of the working dwarves they met here, had shoulders nearly as broad as they were tall and arms heavily packed with muscle beside them Kíli appeared to be of light built. Most of them conversed in a language Boromir did not understand – a rolling, rich tongue that sounded quite melodious all the same. It had to be the dwarven speech, he concluded, though he knew nothing about their language at all.

 

They were, of course, seen by the other Dwarves as well, a few bowing in their direction, others merely making room for them when they passed. There was a distinct respect in the way they greeted Kíli, a respect Boromir was too well acquainted with to miss. He had received similar greetings himself too often – people who would make room for him, simply because he headed down a road, or who would bow when he passed. Boromir remembered how Kíli had spoken of his Uncle and brother who had fallen to retake the Mountain Home, he was almost sure that Kíli too had seen the battle – the expression in his eyes had said as much. It seemed that he had earned some of a heroes reputation that way, and with fighting for his people, alone against the Orcs and Trolls, he most surely had become a kind of protector to them.  Kíli was no stranger to their treatment – differential at most, courteous at best – but also did not quite like it, if his tensing shoulders were any indication. He stopped two or three times to greet Dwarves he knew by name. The first time he did that, speaking to a dwarf called Orin, they switched from dwarven to Westron – if for politeness’ sake or for other reason Boromir did not know. But he heard Kíli ask about Orin’s sons who had gone to a place called Cardemir a while ago. Boromir did not really follow the details of the conversation that was concerned with the details of armorer apprenticing but watched Kíli.

 

He knew that kind of situation, of men who had fought beside him, or people he had protected, remembering the names, details of their family. It was something that became second nature after a while, and what felt like a casual question about a child, or a family member could mean the world for them – being remembered by someone they perceived above themselves. Boromir could not quite discern the role Kíli played to these people, beyond a revered protector, but there was an edge of hero worship in the way some of them treated him.

 

Which made the second meeting on their way into the settlement such a contrast, they had just passed by several smelters and now approached a huge building that was echoing tremendous noise. When they came closer Boromir glimpsed into the building and understood – the overshot waterwheel outside the stone house drove three heavy hammers that were ringing out so loudly. He could not see what the hammers were used for – if they were a hammer smithy of a refining hammer, but the huge steel hammers in itself were impressive.

 

His distraction with the Hammermill was the reason why he had to catch up with Kíli who had stopped a bit off the building, where the road bend into the main settlement. He stood with another dwarf, nearly as tall as himself, with long hair, a dark mane richly streaked with iron grey. Contrary to other greetings here, they had clasped shoulders and their foreheads touched. “I am glad you got them back in time, Thirán.”

 

“Both children are safely home with their family and they certainly won’t sneak out after dark again. They were lucky that the troll was hoping for a more substantial dinner, before he started cooking.” Thirán’s voice was deep, with a dark steely quality to it. He stepped back, one hand still on Kíli’s shoulder. “Seems you have your hands full, Storm-child, I’ll make another patrol up north, to make sure we don’t have any other nasty surprises from the Ettenmoors.”

 

“Be careful, Thirán, something is out there, hunting.” Kíli said, a slight edge in his voice.

 

The older dwarf shook his head. “All the more reason to go looking. Watch you back too, Kíli. Mahal with you.” With that the old warrior mounted his pony and rode off, Kíli’s eyes following him for a moment.

 

When they reached the quarter stone houses that seemed to be the miners’ homes, another Dwarf came rushing at them. He was nearly five foot high and wore a remarkable grey moustache. His hair must have been dark once but now was all grey. His clothes were made of sturdy leather and speckled with rock dust, as was his skin, which also sported traces of sweat and smudges of earth and dust. The Dwarf’s hands were large and powerful, marked with the dirt of a long shift in the mine. “Kíli!” he called out as he reached them.

 

Both Dwarves greeted with a hug, Kíli stiffening slightly at first, but disregarding the discomfort he hugged the other dwarf back firmly. “Kíli,” the new arrival repeated, “I… You get more similar to your uncle with every passing year.” He clasped Kíli’s shoulder. “A bit of fur here and you’d look more than ever like him. When I saw you stride in here, I could have sworn it was him.”

 

Compared to the way Bladvila and the other people of the settlement reacted to Kíli, there was a distinct difference in their greeting here. Contrary to the others in the settlement, this miner greeted Kíli much like an equal, and Kíli responded in kind, his greeting of the other Dwarf warm and honest.

 

His smile was a soft one, holding past fondness and sadness as well. “Dwalin said the same once, Bofur,” he replied. “I wish I were only here to talk of old times.”

 

“Aye, I can see that and Bladvila’s message said there was trouble afoot,” Bofur said. “I better send someone for Auda, the way you are standing I don’t even want to know what chewed on you this time.”

 

“No, Bofur, it is nothing, just a few scratches already treated.” Kíli brushed off the concern quickly. “And there are much more pressing worries, then that.”

 

Bofur raised his hands in a defeated gesture. “Not that talking ever helped much with you or….” He broke off and suddenly turned, changing topics. “But who’s your companion – a Ranger?”

 

It was the third time Boromir heard that assumption, along with the mention that Kíli usually did not mix with the Rangers. He knew there were survivors of Arnor who called themselves that, and he wondered what tensions might stand between them and Dwarves.

 

“No, he is Boromir of Gondor, who is on his way to Imladris.” Kíli’s hand gesture was the clear underlining of the verbal introduction..

 

The Dwarf bowed deeply. “Bofur at your service.”

 

Boromir recalled Kíli having done the same at their first meeting, so it had to be some kind of Dwarven politeness. “And yours,” he replied with a light bow of his own.

 

It seemed to satisfy propriety because Bofur’s attention shifted back to Kíli. “What happened? Bladvila said something about Watchhill.”

 

“It was burned by Orcs last night, Bofur. They left no one alive. Their leader – a Rider upon a black horse – is searching for Baggins.” Kíli quickly recounted all they had found in the burned village.

 

“Baggins… oh no.” Bofur’s eyes widened, for a moment he forgot to close his mouth. “That is not good,” there was a clear tension in his voice that said he was familiar with the word ‘Baggins’ in some way, and it was not just a special term for knapsack. Could it be a Dwarven name? Or maybe some kind of Dwarven homestead? “Do you know why?”

 

“No. Bran told me what he could before he died. It was not more than what I just shared.”

 

Bofur’s face set in a determined expression. “You will need a fast horse and someone to bring your friend to Rivendell. I’ll send my son with him; Beris knows the way,” he announced.

 

Now Boromir understood why Kíli had headed here so fast. It was for help, and for keeping his word to Boromir, even with all that had happened he had not forgotten about his promise to bring Boromir to Rivendell. “There will be no need of that,” he spoke up. “I will go with Kíli and help to thwart whatever these Orcs are planning.”

 

Now both Dwarves looked at him surprise. “Kíli’s kin always claimed the people of Gondor were a proud and noble kind,” Bofur stated when Kíli did not react at once. “They were right. Do you dare to stay for the night or will you press on?”

 

“I’d be most grateful for a place to sleep for a few hours, Bofur, before we head on,” Kíli told him. “We have had little rest these last days.”

 

“My home is yours, Kíli. Come on in.” Bofur gestured them to follow him towards one of the small, compact buildings that obviously was his home. It was no different from all the other buildings around, nothing indicating that the leader of this settlement lived there, Boromir noted.

 

TRB

 

More than an hour later, they sat by the fire in Bofur’s home. They had shared a warm stew made of potatoes and other ‘roots’, having some real food and the warmth of the fireplace felt good to Boromir. After the last days such things were pure luxury.  

 

“Baggins…” Bofur said softly, shaking his head. “After all these years. I still don’t understand it, Kíli. Halflings keep to themselves. Bilbo was the great exception to come with us and… why would the Orcs hunt him now? Of all who were there the day Azog fell – they certainly came for you, and I am sure they tried Dwalin a few times… but Bilbo?”

 

“So Baggins is a person?” Boromir asked, when Kíli did not respond directly to Bofur’s words. He could see the way Kíli’s hands closed around the mug he was holding, knuckles white with the tight grasp, his shoulders had tensed and his eyes had changed from an unreadable black to being stormy with a worry. So Baggins was a name, and he might know the person attached to it. Any person being hunted by Orcs was someone to be worried for, but a Rider able to command the Orcs behind said person was another batch of ill new entirely, Boromir agreed.

 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bofur confirmed. “He came with us to the Lonely Mountain when Thorin led us back there. Bilbo was a burglar – an _expert treasure hunter_ , our Hobbit.” The last words were spoken with a great deal of warmth and fondness.

 

“A Halfling,” Kíli provided, seeing Boromir’s confusion at the word “Hobbit.”

 

All tiredness forgotten Boromir sat up straight, of all the things he had expected to hear, this was the very last. Halfling, the word that had puzzled him since he had ridden from Minas Tirith… he had heard that word before, in the dream Faramir had related to him, the very dream that had sent him on the search for Imladris.

.

_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_And the Halfling forth shall stand._

 

He did not know what those words meant but suddenly he was sure that all of this was no coincidence. Somehow, a Halfling was tied into the prophetic dream he and his brother had shared, and now one of them was hunted by the servants of the Enemy. There could be no doubt, this was no happenstance. Still, he had no clue what a Hobbit actually was. “A Halfling?” Boromir asked. Not even Faramir had been able to make much sense of the word, except linking it to a fairy tale from Rohan. “Like Holbytla? The hill people from Rohan’s fairy tales?”

 

“They are hill dwellers, true, but fairy tales they are not. They live to the west, south of the Ered Luin,” Bofur provided. “They are farmers, gardeners, and as kind and as peaceful a people as you’ll find left in this world. They also can be exceptionally brave. Bilbo saved our hides a few times, freed us from the dungeons in Mirkwood, scouted a Dragon’s lair –”

 

“And he saved my life after the Battle of Five Armies. I was only found so quickly thanks to him,” Kíli added, interrupting Bofur’s flow of words.

 

It was easy to see that there was a whole tale about that. Boromir wished they had more time and less pressing needs at hand so he could hear it. “What made him come with you?” he asked. “If he was no Dwarf, he would not have held any loyalty to your kingdom, did he?”

 

“No.” Bofur said, “but you see, Thorin had agreed to let Gandalf chose the fourteenth member of our company. And he chose Bilbo.”

 

It was not the mention of the wizard that made Boromir frown. “Wait – you went with barely more than a dozen men to reclaim a kingdom and to face down a Dragon? That is brave beyond imagining. But… why then do you still live here in the west?”

 

Bofur put aside his mug, like he was attempting to put off answering. His eyes went to Kíli, who had been staring into the fire, where his mind might have been remained his secret. The old miner’s face tensed, then he rose unannounced. “That is a long story, Boromir, and you will want to ride by first light,” he said. “I can’t offer you much more than a place before the fire to sleep, but you will want any rest you can get. Kíli…”

 

“I’ll do just fine down here as well, Bofur,” Kíli said, forestalling any offer of taking the only bedchamber available in the small house. “A place before the fire is more comfortable than many a camp in the wilds.”

 

TRB

 

Boromir had slept fairly well as far as such things went in the small house, the noises from the outside were dimmed by the thick walls and the crackling of the low burning fire had made the place almost homely. Still his sleep was light and the first noise outside the pattern of those that were perpetual to the house startled him up, bringing him from slumber to full alert within moments. He knew he had heard a voice, not giving away that he was awake he listened into the darkness of the room.

 

“Brekár… kaî dru…” the words were a short, hoarse bark and this time Boromir recognized Kíli’s voice clearly in the darkness. He reached for the wood stacked by the fireplace and tossed a single log into the embers of the fire, it took to burn swiftly, shedding a soft light into the room. Kíli was still where he had camped down hours earlier – Boromir’s own feeling said that it must be some three hours past midnight, dawn still safely away, sleeping behind the eastern hills. He had no way of telling when Kíli’s sleep had turned from peaceful to restless, but the way he was tossing and whispering in his dreams betrayed a nightmare.

 

The door of the room opened and Boromir went for his weapon only to recognize Bofur, the miner looked drowsy in the light of the pale lamp her carried. “A dream?” he asked softly, underlined with a hand gesture Boromir could not decipher.

 

“Looks like,” Boromir replied in the same hush. “you heard the shout? I did not catch what it was.”

 

“Dru Bekar! Dru bekar kaî dru! - To Arms! To arms my brethren!Battle call, ‘course I heard,” Bofur smiled sheepishly. “I was up and had my hammer in my hand before I realized I was not back at Erebor.” He squatted down beside Kíli, shaking his head. “Speaking of the Quest must have brought it all back… I sometimes forget how young he was back then.”

 

“The battle his brother and Uncle fell in?” Boromir knew nightmares all too well, his own frequently send him back into the dungeons of the Enemy or to battles at the river… memories were a tricky thing to deal with. The price of surviving were the memories, or so his father had once put it.

 

“Aye,” Bofur wanted to say more but the door of the house opened and Bladvila looked in, Boromir saw nothing more but a series of finger gestures that the warrior used to communicate with Bofur and the older dwarf sighed. “So much for a restful night. Kíli.” Bofur slightly shook Kíli by the shoulder. “Kíli… wake up. Something is going on.”

 

Kíli sat up, grabbing his sword, which was sitting beside him on the floor. “Attackers?” he asked softly, at once ready to fight.

 

“No, but Bladvila just alerted me that something strange is happening south. You should come and see.” Bofur held a small, shielded lamp in one hand and his mining hammer in the other. He led them outside and up the stairs outside another home, which stood somewhat elevated and served as a lookout post.

 

Standing atop the sturdy stone platform, Bofur pointed south, where lightning was ripping apart the night sky. At first one might easily be fooled to think of it as a late autumn thunderstorm but Boromir quickly noticed that it was too localized. The lightning occurred only in one spot, as did other lights, faint lights like flames flickering up and dying again in the very same position. They were nearly too bright to be fire, but lightning would not strike like that. “That must be Weathertop,” Kíli observed.

 

“Aye, I was thinking the same,” Bofur agreed. “But what does it mean, Kíli? It’s not a storm nor is it firelight.”

 

“They searched for Baggins on the Archet road,” Boromir said slowly, putting together the disjointed pieces of information, as he worked out what the reported Enemy movements meant. “You said Archet was to the southwest of us. What if Baggins – or whatever they believe for Baggins – gave them the slip and headed straight west instead of northwest? And now they are back on their trail?”

 

The two Dwarves exchanged a glance, both nodding. “You are right – it would make sense,” Kíli said, accompanying the words with a short clap against Boromir’s arms. “Where did you learn to think ahead of them so swiftly?”

 

Boromir did not answer that, it did not need an answer, though he was pleased that he was slowly getting his feet on the ground in this strange land. They hurried down the stairs again, where Bofur had already sent someone to wake his son to have the horses readied. Kíli went back to the house to quickly gather up their packs. Boromir saw Bofur still stare south, hand on his huge mining hammer. “’Tis like a storm is brewing,” the Dwarf said in a low voice. “Like soon we’ll have to put aside the tools and take up the axes again. I should have spoken to Dwalin.” He suddenly woke from his reverie and looked at Boromir, realizing he had heard. “I’m sorry…” he began.

 

“No,” Boromir said, “you are right. There is a darkness gathering even here, and seeing your people ready for it is more than prudent a thought.” He did not know what else to say. These dwarves seemed to be a strange mix of workers and warriors, and he had no idea where the allegiance lay, beyond fighting off the raiders. At least the Orcs would not find easy pickings in this settlement.

****

TRB

****

The third evening hence found Boromir and Kíli still riding south. They had passed through Rhudaur, passed by the Trollshaws, and now approached the Weather Hills from the east. Pressed for time, they had only allowed for breaks such as their horses required. Boromir was not quite sure what he should call his mount, as it was taller than a normal pony and most certainly closely related to a draft horse, but not quite as tall. Yet the mare had carried him speedily uphill and downhill across bad grounds and barely passable paths. What it lacked in looks, it made up with its sturdy qualities. Kíli’s horse was in the same vein, only that it was nearly too tall for him.

 

The day had been a cold and windy one and now, as the Sun set, her fiery rays touched upon the largest hill ahead, crowned by some ruins of sorts. Boromir was not sure he liked it. His initial fascination with the ruins of Arnor had faded and made room for a healthy weariness. It seemed that such places either held bad memories, were haunted by things better unnamed, or had become dens for all kinds of horrors. He knew it would take him a while to see any ruin as something more than a place of dangers when he returned home. “That ruin – is that Weathertop?” he asked, the first time in the three days they spoke something beyond the barest necessity.

 

Kíli peered ahead. “Watchtower of Amon Sul, called Weathertop these days. Not a place I particularly like – the Orcs and Goblins have been using it as a lookout as much as any other might in this land. Bilbo would know better than to camp at a location that exposed.” He dismounted his horse in the cover of a small set of rocks overgrown with dry summer grass and birchwood. Boromir agreed and dismounted as well, both horses were tired and could do with a short rest before they pressed on towards the watchtower’s ruins.

 

He studied the grounds ahead of them. Some leagues were still left and the grounds between them and the ruin did not look easy, either. If they pressed on, they might reach the tower before midnight. He bit back a yawn that wanted to sneak up on him. They both had hardly more than five hours sleep since leaving Bofur’s settlement. It was nothing to Boromir: he had gone without sleep or rest for longer times before.

 

Suddenly he felt Kíli’s strong hand on his arm. “Don’t move, don’t break cover,” the Dwarf whispered, his eyes peering past the rock and south.

 

Boromir was careful to not get out of the cover the rocks provided as he ducked slightly to have a look as well. Past the rock he could see the hills falling more and more towards a road running west. Far away, touched by the last rays of sunlight, he could see a Rider on the road. One Rider on a dark horse. He could not make out much more – it was too far away – but he felt a warning fear clasp his heart in an icy clutch. Danger was here… The hunt was on.

 

“They are still searching; that means they have not caught him yet,” Kíli whispered, a clear edge in his voice.  “I doubt it is the same rider that came to Watchhill, for he moved north with his Orcs, according to the tracks we saw…”

 

Boromir had to agree with the Dwarf’s pragmatic view. He pushed aside the doubt gnawing at him. Since when did he listen to fears and superstitions? Boromir had never had the luxury to listen to his fears or speak of them. He had to be strong for those he led and while he somehow was tempted to speak of them to Kíli he pushed that impetus away, ignoring the feeling of fear entirely. “Let’s wait until night falls,” he said calmly. “We leave the horses here and move on foot. Less chance they will see us. If they want to go up there, we can flank them.”

 

“Agreed.” The Sun faded from the skies and dusk settled upon them. Boromir could never quite tell when the Rider had vanished from the road. Yet all of sudden he was gone.

 

TRB

 

It was a stormy autumn night that the two companions approached Weathertop. A pale moon shone down from torn clouds, bathing the land in an eerie light, casting long shadows across the rugged landscape. Each bush shaking in the gales, each tree bending to the wind caused wild movements in the dark until not even the sharpest eye could tell what was there. Sometimes Boromir had a hard time to still spot Kíli, who went ahead of him. Ducked, the Dwarf moved through what once might have been a trench of sorts. Even while they moved swiftly, it took them hours to cross the rough grounds. Sometime in the dead of night they had believed to see light on Weathertop again and heard fell voices over the wind but both had been short-lived.

 

Now that the silent hours before dawn were upon them, they finally reached the path that wound up Weathertop. Kíli ducked behind a rock, peering ahead. Boromir caught up with him, squatting down to take cover. “What is it?” he whispered.

 

“I believed to see a glow in the den below the tower, where we saw the light earlier,” Kíli responded. “It flickered up and out.”

 

“In that moonlight it could be anything, look how the trees move in the wind and the moon creates shadows anywhere. Who knows what you saw..” He had not seen any light flash up and die down again but with the moon playing constant pranks on his eyes, he had stopped even trying to notice. Better to overlook something than to be driven mad by things that were not there. This night reminded him all too vividly of a stormy night in the Mountains of Shadow, between the thunder and rains he had hardly been able to see a thing, or to tell what was around him, and curse Shakurán for his lousy sense of eastern humor had made full use of that. If not for Faramir who had not fallen for the tricks the Easterling had played at them, Boromir was not sure if that night would not have ended in his capture and subsequent death.

 

“Aye, let us approach the den first and then go up the tower.” Kíli rose and took the lead again. There was a very narrow path winding up the side of the rock. For Boromir, it was not hard to guess that this once had been  the access to the tower’s postern, long ago it had been a small but well defendable set of stairs but now it was a broken path hardly broad enough to allow them passage. Often enough they had to go with their backs to the rock and in the constant danger of falling. The stairs led to a dead end right under the den. Kíli simply reached up with one hand, grabbing the ledge above, and deftly climbed up. Being considerably taller than his companion Boromir did not need to climb to reach the top.. To his surprise, they emerged right in front of something that once might have been a cellar of the tower and now was an open den facing outward from the hill.

 

A gust of wind blowing into the hole revealed another flicker of light, and suddenly Boromir understood. “Someone made a fire in this cave and did not extinguish it fully. The fire is still glowing.” He hurried over and found it as he had guessed. The fire was nearly dead but the remaining ashes were sill hot. Kíli had followed him, bringing a branch to light on the dying embers. The warm light of the torch filled the cave, the glow softly shining.

 

“Several people camped here.” Beside the ashes of the fire that must have burned here not long ago, were several shapes pressed into the sand, people had sat around the fire but another detail quickly drew Boromir’s attention. "They went barefoot.”

 

“Hobbits do not wear shoes,” Kíli replied, his eyes shining. “There were several of them. At least he’s not alone. But they left… going up to the tower.”

 

They followed a narrow stairwell that led to the broken tower’s remains. The building in itself was nothing special: it was a round place with several stone arches. Whatever glory the tower of Amon Sûl once may have had, it was long gone, leaving only crumbling ruins behind. Kíli placed the torch on a broken pillar so it would lend them some light and not burn out. Not that there was much to see. There were no tracks to read on the stone ground of the tower nor any hints of what might have transpired here.

 

Following what made the most sense to him, Boromir approached the broad stone arch that once had held the main gate. If someone had left the tower towards the road, it would have been through this one. Maybe that was what the Halflings had done, moving on before dawn.

 

When he stepped out under the wide stone arch, he saw a movement in the darkness, like the darkness itself was rippling. Only moments late he saw the Rider. One Rider on a black horse, a black cloak enveloping the whole figure, stood on the pathway leading up to the tower. A cold wave washed over Boromir when a familiar fear shrouded him, he almost could feel the touch – the icy marring touch of the shadow again reach for his soul… his blood turned cold and his hands shook. . It could not be, not here… not in this place… not two thousand leagues west of Minas Morgul, not when he had made himself forget all that had nearly a lifetime ago in that accursed place. He could hear his own breath rattle in his throat and he wanted to run, to get away before they could capture him again, before they could drag him back into the darkness where they had almost broken him before. He wanted to escape but his feet would not move, his own body disobeying his fleeing will. The Rider raised one armored hand, pointing at him, but Boromir did not move – he did not see the road or the Rider anymore: he saw darkness – the darkness under Minas Morgul reaching for him, washing up memories and pain searing through his bones and into his very soul. He could not even scream, his throat was constricted, choking him as his heart pounded into his ribcage.

 

It was the grim battle-cry that woke Boromir from his daze. “Drakhûn caî Nargûn! Azór Nargûn!” He did not understand the words but they rang like a clarion in his mind, driving away the darkness, piercing the invisible chains that held him. Still shocked, he saw Kíli charge past him, the dwarf’s face was pale, the black eyes smoldering in anger. He too must feel the fear wash over him like a branding wave, yet it was met with all the fierce stubbornness the Dwarf could muster. He reached to his back to draw his sword; the white, polished hilt of the blade shone as a white light in his hand as he attacked the Black Rider, heedless of the danger, heedless of his own safety. Boromir saw all this as though through a veil, his sight getting clearer and clearer with each passing moment. What he saw horrified him, the first hit of the dwarf was a cross-cut against the horse, Boromir could not believe that anyone would deprive the rider of his Mount to force him to battle it out. It was a deadly mistake.

 

The Rider was startled by the sudden, wild charge . He turned his horse and drew his dark sword. His first attack tossed the Dwarf across the field like he was nothing more than an annoying cat to be tossed out of the window. Landing hard on the ground, Kíli was up the same moment, attacking again. This time he did not charge in a straight line but flanked the enemy, their blades clashed directly, black steel meeting the dwarven sword, both blades shrieked, sparks shone where the steel made hard contact, but Boromir saw Kíli stumble backwards and his arms came up slower than before. Time and again Kíli was tossed back by the Rider’s attacks, only to come back for another round, his face had turned ashen, but he refused to give ground. He stood no chance, and Boromir knew it. No one stood a chance against Mordor’s fell messengers he would die… another to fall to the Nazgûl.

 

It was that thought that broke the last of the spell holding Boromir, he would not let a friend die, he would not allow another comrade to fall to the shadow. Not while he still could fight. Boromir rushed back inside the tower for the only thing to save them: the torch. It was still burning on the pillar where Kíli had left it. When he came outside again, he saw Kíli duck under the Rider’s raised sword, the dwarf’s blade striking home, ripping through the cloak and into the nothingness of the Rider’s upper body. Kíli then staggered slightly – Boromir recognized the way he had overcompensated his stroke, as there was nothing physical for his blade to hit, but still the Rider’s shriek ripped through the night like a fiery whip. The Rider’s counterattack was fearsome, Boromir saw his friend’s body whirled through the air like a ragdoll and crashed against the wall of the tower several paces away. And this time Kíli’s body sagged down on the foot of the wall. Boromir did not want to think what it meant.. The hard impact must have stunned the dwarf – or worse – for he did not get up again.

 

Boromir had waited – now that his mind was free, he acted with icy cool. He knew he had only one chance to do this: one single opportunity was all he and Kíli had left. When the Rider tossed Kíli, fully focused on his erstwhile adversary, Boromir saw his chance: he too charged at the Rider, only instead of using a sword, he used the torch. The first strikes of the torch touched the Rider’s cloak, setting it aflame; the second and third hit glancing blows off the horse, which was all equal to Boromir, as the beast feared fire as much as its cruel master. If the Rider lost control of the horse as it fled, it would be as good a result as burning the black appearance. And truly the horse neighed in pain with the burning and shrieking creature on his back.

 

Boromir picked up the sword Kíli had dropped with his left hand, using both the torch and the blade against the Rider. The heavy blade cut right into the Wraith, and he felt a cold fire running through him, like a flame of ice licking at his skin… and deep inside him something broke. Again he felt the shadow’s touch, the touch of the icy hand in Minas Morgul… the darkness. He gritted his teeth, he would not fall to his own panic, to his fears. Pushing himself forward he raised the torch again… but the horse’s panic was enough – trapped between a torch and a burning Rider, it bolted, carrying its burning master off into the night.

 

Turning back to the tower, Boromir hurried towards where Kíli had fallen after the last attack. For a moment, he feared that his friend had paid with death for his bravery, but when he came close, Kíli was already struggling back to his feet. Boromir reached for his arm, helping him up.

 

“That was the single most stupid and brave thing I ever saw anyone do and survive.” Boromir said as the dwarf grasped his arm and pulled himself up, using his other hand to steady himself against the wall.

 

**Author’s Notes**

“Drakhûn caî Nargûn! Azór Nargûn!” = Victory and Death!

As the few existing Dwarf tongue dictionaries do not provide every bit of material necessary, I often make up the words and phrases I need. 


	5. To make a stand

** Chapter 4: To make a stand **

****

“That was the single most stupid and brave thing I ever have seen anyone do and survive.” Boromir was torn between being awed by the sheer courage of what he had just witnessed and telling his companion off for being so superiorly stupid. Charging at a Nazgul like that, what had he been thinking?

 

He had assisted Kíli who now leaned his arm against the crumbling wall, supporting his shaky stand, in getting back to his feet, but it seemed that the stalwart dwarf might collapse again any moment. “You saved my life there, Boromir.” Kíli’s eyes went into the night where the Rider had vanished the gaze so focused that Boromir wondered if his friend might still be able to see the black horse galloping off into the dark. “That thing was too strong for me.” The Dwarf’s face was pale, beads of cold sweat glistening on his brow, and his hands were still shaking from the encounter. The fear had not gone past him, Boromir could see the expression in the dark eyes that echoed the fear, the dark echo of the Rider had done its work on Kíli, but he refused to let it bring him to his knees with a strength that Boromir could only wonder at.

 

“It was too strong for either of us.” Now that it was over and the darkness had receded, Boromir felt he could breathe freely once more, though he still felt the traces of cold sweat on his back. “They are deadly. How could you even _think_ of charging him like that?” In the eyes of his comrade, Boromir saw an incredibly stubborn expression, an iron will that was not easily broken or deterred. And yet... there was a flicker in those black eyes. For only one moment, Boromir got a glimpse of the feelings behind that will: fear and horrors shone in his gaze, kept tightly in control by a strength of will that he could hardly fathom.

 

“When things get darkest, do not let fear guide you – there is always hope, if we only are strong enough to see it.” Kíli sounded like he was quoting someone, and although the first words were spoken in a shaky voice, the last were steady. Again, he pushed himself up, away from the wall. He straightened slowly, still not very firm on his feet, but he stood on his own.

 

In the light of the slowly fading torch, Boromir saw how pale Kíli was, like all colour had faded from his face, he was shivering slightly, hunching his shoulders like to shield himself against the night’s cool wind. “Did he injure you? Any cut by his blade…” He knew that soldiers struck by such evil blades usually died within hours of the injury, and their death was a cruel one. Boromir had once seen a man hang on for one and half days, it was a sight he would never forget… nor want to see again. Whatever will to fight had kept Erandir fighting so long… in the end he had died screaming his soul out into an uncaring night, experiencing horrors none of his friends could see or protect him from.

 

“No, no cuts. Just bruises and that cold fire… each time our blades touched,” Kíli growled. “It will not slow me down.” He made a step forward and Boromir did not fail to see how much he put his weight on his right foot.

 

“The injury in your side will have reopened from that fall,” Boromir said firmly, he understood not wanting to appear weak, to having to be strong in front of others, it was a demand on any leader but wisdom was to know when to give in and accept help. “let me take a look at it, before we move out.”

 

Kíli shook his head, though his hand moved to his side, like probing the bandage through the chainmail. “I’ll manage, Boromir. We can’t afford to lose time.“

 

“We can’t afford to have you die either and you can hardly stand.” Boromir said a little more firmly, guiding Kíli to sit down on the rocks by the ruined wall. He had already noticed how the dwarf seemed to gravitate towards solid stone whenever threatened or injured, maybe it was something like a natural reflex for his kind. Their eyes locked and Boromir wondered how much stubborn will – or how little care for his own well-being – drove Kíli to act like he did. “there is no one here you have to prove something to, no one who expects you to be indestructible.”

 

With a sigh Kíli gave in and removed the chain mail armour and the tunic he wore beneath, allowing Boromir access to the blood-soaked bandage beneath. “You think that I do this because I want to make a point?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “My people know I am not that strong.”

 

Squatting down beside the sitting dwarf, Boromir carefully removed the dirty bandage layers, he was surprised to see that the healing process of the cut had been progressing so far already. Either the dwarves healed much faster than menfolk did or Kíli was incredibly lucky. “I’d like to think that it is the only reason,” he replied, in the light of the torch that he had stuck into the rubble, he could not see much better than the last time he had bandaged the injury, but it seemed free of infections. “because you have a tendency to throw yourself into the path of danger, not even thinking if it might be lethal for you.”

 

Kíli shook his head, the long hair rasping on the leather reinforced shoulders of his armour. “They are lethal to others, I am quite good at surviving.”

 

Stopping his ministrations Boromir looked up, expecting some kind of humour in Kíli’s expression, the kind of smirk warriors had for dangers at times, but in the flickering light of the torch he saw the dwarf’s face was serious, the expression devoid of even a hint of fun. “So you either overestimate your own resilience or underestimate the worth of your own life.” Boromir reached up, placing a hand on the dwarf’s arm, to draw his attention. “Kíli, I appreciate what you did, I doubt I’ll ever forget that someone tried to protect me from…” his eyes went to the dark where the Rider had gone. “them, but – the way you risk yourself doing it… few people would do that for a stranger, and while I honour your courage, I’d rather not be rescued at such a price.” He did not like the idea at all. Maybe because over the course of a few days they had become comrades, maybe even become friends. Many a friendship began on a battlefield. He had finished dressing the wound again, glad that the dwarf’s strong healing had prevented it from getting worse.

 

“Live for your people, protect those weaker than yourself and fight the battles others can’t,” Kíli spoke the words softly, almost reverently. “that’s how I was raised, Boromir, that’s what I was trained to be. I failed once – failed beyond anything and others died because of that – it won’t happen again.” He had pushed his armour back into place, but had remained sitting for the moment, allowing himself the brief respite.

 

The death of others, the loss of those that had to be sacrificed to achieve victory, Boromir knew that very well. He lost men in battle, he had send then to their deaths, knowing they’d not return and he had made decisions on whom to save and whom to sacrifice, it was a burden a leader had to bear, only a soul strong enough to bear the weight of the fallen should become a leader, and he could see the marks clearly in Kíli. “I’ll not take offence that you assumed I could not fight this battle… because he nearly got me,” it was not an easy admission to make, and still, it felt good to make it, for once to allow himself to not maintain the façade of the Captain. Maybe it became so easy because Kíli was not one of his men. “but as I will accept you into my battles, you’ll have to accept me into yours.” He raised a hand. “Friends?”

 

Kíli’s eyes warmed a little, though his smile did not truly reach them it was a remarkable change in his whole expression. He grasped the proffered hand. “Friends it is, Boromir. And we better get moving. Wherever the Halflings fled, it seems these Riders are still searching for them.”

 

These Riders… Boromir’s eyes widened. “Do you not know what they are?” he asked, realizing only then that Kíli had not yet recognized what he had been up against. It did not diminish his bravery: few had the nerve or strength to stand under the Shadow’s unfurling wings and fight. He saw the Dwarf simply shake his head, and went on: “They are the Nine, Kíli. His fell messengers.”

 

“The Witch-king’s fair brethren, they have not be seen in this land since Carn Dum fell.” Kíli’s words did not quite hide the shock in his eyes. “Bilbo… We need to reach him, Boromir; if they are after him…”

 

Boromir silently agreed. This was no longer a coincidence. The verse in the dream he and Faramir had shared had spoken of a Halfling, and now the Nazgul were hunting one. They would have to reach him quickly. Yet… he was not blind or easily deceived either. “You can hardly stand on your own.” He did not know what Kíli meant with the cold fire, but Boromir had never been crazy or desperate enough to cross blades with a Nazgul.

 

“I’ll manage. The warmth in my bones will return all the faster with running.”

 

Warmth – that reminded Boromir of the sword he had picked up and was still carrying. The hilt radiated a strange warmth, tangible even through his gloves. It was an unusual weapon. The hilt was made from a white polished tooth, framed with silvery steel to support the guard. Runes had been carved into the hilt, shining a cool light in the darkness. The blade was two-edged and fairly long for someone of Kíli’s stature. “Maybe this can help.” He handed the blade back. “I picked it up when it fell.”

 

Kíli took the blade with the ease of someone long familiar with the weight of their weapon. More runes shone aglow when he touched the hilt but they all faded following a whispered word Boromir did not catch.

 

“Are those… magic?” He had heard of enchanted blades, mostly in legends concerning the Elves, but some stories of Dwarves would also claim them able to create magical things.

 

“Those you see in the dark – yes. The ones you see by light are for memory,” Kíli said, his hand still closed around the pale hilt. He straightened up, pulling back his shoulders. Had his standing been still somewhat unsure before, he was back on firm ground again and there was a fresh energy in his movements when he returned the blade into the scabbard on his back. “We need to retrieve our horses and find where Bilbo went before they can get him. I think…” Kíli’s eyes widened. “Rivendell… Where else would he seek shelter if not with the Elves?”

 

TRB

 

By dawn, they found the first tracks: a fleeting trail leading away from Weathertop and down to the Great East Road, which they followed. Whatever else that night had wrought, it had given their horses a much needed rest: they were fresh and ran with new vigor. It was about noon that they reached the bridge. Boromir dismounted to check for tracks. There was not much to tell but he spotted the hoofprints of a pony, the same that the Halflings seemed to have with them.

 

When he looked up, he saw that a raven had landed on Kíli’s hand. The Dwarf spoke to it in soft whispers. A moment later, the bird flew off and into the east. “Anything?” Kíli asked.

 

“Not much, they must be making horrible haste – they crossed the bridge hours ago and that without horses,” Boromir told him. “If they fled all night, they will have to stop for tonight. If we press on hard, we may reach them then.”

 

They did press on hard; the whole afternoon passed on the road. The land changed a little – it became rockier, with higher rocks and more woods. Boromir spotted less ruins here, too, so he was startled when he saw one around dawn – though it was not much. Probably the remains of a farmhouse abandoned decades ago.

 

The sigh of the ruined farmhouse brought a light to Kíli’s eyes. “Of course… we camped there the night the trolls ambushed us. I think… I think I may know where they went.” He dismounted and led his pony up the woody hill. They passed through a narrow passage of rocks and suddenly stood beside a broken barrier under which was indeed a small fire.

 

Three small figures scrambled to their feet, drawing daggers that they wielded much like swords, that probably were swords for their size, only that the short blades clearly had been daggers or hunting knives when they had been made., while a fourth rose more slowly, supporting himself heavily by leaning on a rock by his side, Boromir saw how he leaned on the stone to stand at all. “Stay where you are!” one of them bellowed, “or I’ll gut you whole.” He was a stout if very small person of a kind Boromir had never seen before, and the way he wielded the sword made him cringe, he held it like he was carrying some farmer’s fork.

 

“We mean you no harm.” Kíli had stopped where he stood, not so much due to the threat than to avoid startling the stout Halfling any further. “We are not the ones that hunt you.”

 

The fourth Halfling stepped forward; he looked deadly pale and tired, nearly stumbling in his step. The other two Halflings grabbed his arms, not as much as to support him, then to hinder him in walking onwards. “Don’t… they could be with the Riders,” the smaller one hissed.

 

“Let me, I don’t think they are servants of the Enemy,” the pale Halfling said firmly, freeing his arms from their grasp.. His eyes went up to Kíli’s face, as though searching for something. “You were one of Uncle Bilbo’s companions, were you not? Kíli, right?”

 

“Kíli, son of Dari at your service.” The dwarf bowed slightly and Boromir caught a moment’s puzzled expression in his eyes.

 

“Frodo Baggins at yours.” The Hobbit stumbled, near collapsing, quickly caught by the stout Hobbit.

 

Kíli moved past the other two to help. “Is he injured?” he asked, his voice tense, the dwarf reached out to catch Frodo, helping him to sit down.

 

“He was stabbed by the Black Riders.” The older of the other two replied, his eyes darting around, like looking for danger from beyond the bushes.

 

“Strider went to find something for him,” the youngest of the Hobbits replied, worry and fear was clearly written on all their faces.

 

Kíli looked up. “Boromir – you said something about these wounds this very morning?”

 

“Only that they are dangerous.” Boromir did not find it in his heart to say outright that such wounds were lethal. There was nothing that could be done about them. Still he bridged the distance between them, careful to not step on the hairy toes of several Hobbits clustering close by and squatted down beside Frodo. While he had no wish to see another such wound, he probably had more experience with them than Kíli had. “How long ago where you stabbed?” he asked. “and where?”

 

“Three days ago, he… he hit me here…” Frodo raised his healthy hand to his right shoulder.

 

 So close to the heart and three days ago! Boromir could hardly believe it. That the Halfling still lived was remarkable and bespoke a strength few Men had – a strength that would not save him, though. If it was a true Morgul Blade wound and not something else.

 

He saw a movement in the shadows – not more than when Faramir used to stalk him in the woods – and stood up to draw his sword. Coming about, he found himself face to face with a man who stood with sword in hand, the blade raised, ready to strike.  The new arrival was about as tall as Boromir, if not quite as broad-shouldered. His long frame was shrouded by a worn leather coat and cloak. His dark hair was long and unkempt, and gave him a ragged appearance.

 

“Strider!” one of the Hobbits announced.

 

The man – Strider – frowned at the Hobbits. “Sam – what has happened here?” His eyes went to Kíli and Boromir, swiftly assessing them. “Who are you?”

 

“It is all right, Mister Strider,” the stout Hobbit said at once. “They are old friends of Master Bilbo. Kíli the Dwarf… now he was on that painting in Bag End. He was younger on it, of course, beggin’ your pardon.” The last statement was directed at Kíli.

 

The dwarf had moved between Frodo and the new arrival, ready to protect him. Now he relaxed his stance and gave the Halfling a curt nod, indicating he had not taken any offense. “We actually came to help you, Strider” he said to the new arrival. “My companion is Boromir, son of Denethor.”

 

There was still distrust in Strider’s eyes, yet he sheathed his sword and hurried to Frodo, who sat on one of the rocks, pale and curled up against himself. When the Ranger squatted down beside the Halfling and producing some fresh herbs he must have gathered, gesturing Sam to bring the hot water from the fire while Frodo bared his bandaged shoulder, so it could be treated.

 

Boromir had considered volunteering what he knew of those wounds, little as that was, he had seen them run their course on several of his men and he had stayed with Egandir to the last… but if this Strider had managed to keep Frodo alive for three days, he either was very lucky or knew more of the subject than Boromir did. So he resigned himself to watch and wait for the moment.

 

“How did you find us?” Strider asked moving his position ever so slightly, that he could keep an eye on Boromir, though that meant his back was to Kíli, a fact that was not lost on Boromir, it seemed his friend had enough of a good reputation to be awarded some trust.

 

“Orcs burned Watchhill a few nights ago, aiding someone searching for Baggins.” Kíli recounted the events quickly. “We followed your trail to Weathertop, and then here. In these parts I’d not be surprised if things other than the Riders join the hunt all too soon.”

 

Strider tossed something into the boiling water on the fire and a sweet smell rose from the liquid. “Of you I will believe that, son of Dari,” he said, carefully washing the wound with the hot liquid, before drenching a fresh bandage in it. “Halbarad spoke highly of you, and so did Elrohir, little that I know how you met him. And I’ve hardly forgotten how we both first met. But your companion is…”

 

“Is here to help you get these four out of danger,” Boromir snapped. “You have the Nine after you. The Enemy wants them. And what the Enemy wants, I’ll deny him if I can – no matter who or what it might be.” His words came out more impatiently than he intended, but he made no effort to correct his tone. This stranger, Strider – what Boromir saw in him did not add up. His clothes were those of a man well-used to the hardships of the wilderness, but his bearing was that of a nobleman: he held himself with a command that bespoke a high birth, and there could be no doubt that he was of Numenoran ancestry, the dark hair, the proud face, his entire being left no other conclusion..

 

“You came to find us, knowing who was hunting for us?” Frodo seemed somewhat better after the treatment he had received and had turned slightly to look at Boromir. “I mean… Kíli is an old friend of Uncle Bilbo and he always said that Kíli’s family were the bravest people he knew but you… you had certainly no obligation to try and help us.”

 

Knowing when the Hobbit had been injured, Boromir was surprised that he still lived and how much of a difference the Ranger’s treatment made for his state. Frodo seemed more alive, colour had returned to his pale face and he sat with greater ease than before. He must be incredibly strong to hang on like this. Maybe his small appearance was deceiving and he was made of sterner stuff than he looked. “My homeland lies at the very borders of the black lands,” Boromir replied. “the Nine reside in a city they conquered nine hundred years ago, I have fought them and their minions all my life. Eriador may be far from my homeland, far from the people I have sworn to protect, but that does not mean I will stop to fight the Shadow.” Boromir replied, when he looked at Frodo he believed that he could see a halo, a darkening shadow drawing together over him and he felt a cold echo brush against him like the fell wind from Morgul Vale itself.

 

“Still, it was brave to come for us, so let me at least say thank you,” Frodo said with a smile, before he settled down between the other Hobbits, walking the few steps to the fire without faltering again.

 

Seeing him walk like that, made Boromir nearly believe that the Elven healers might be able to help him. Nearly. A small, deep-rooted part of him doubted the darkness could be vanquished so easily, that there was hope to walk out of the Shadow once it had touched a soul. It was a sad thought; Frodo seemed like a good person, like someone who deserved better than to die a slow agonizing death. But then… who truly deserved to die at their hands?

 

When Frodo had lain down beside the fire, fussed over by the stout Hobbit Sam, the two other Hobbits were introduced as Merry and Pippin. They settled beside the fire, eyes following Boromir and Kíli with a mix of distrust and curiosity.

 

Strider turned to Boromir and Kíli. “You both are injured as well,” he observed.

 

“Only scratches,” Boromir replied, “nothing serious.” He could at once tell that this was not the answer to give – the glare the Ranger cast him exceeded the worst exasperated stare he had earned from the Warden of the houses of healing. He disliked being exposed or being weak in front of others, when necessary he preferred to entrust himself to Faramir’s care, but his brother was not here and Strider seemed to be cut from the same cloth as any healer in this world.

 

“You have several bruises and a cut to your forehead, you try to take strain off your left shoulder, and you have scratch marks on your neck.” The Ranger said. “Half of them inflamed. Sit down and let me clean them, you will be no help to anyone with a wound fever. Kíli, you are next.”

 

There was sense in his statement, so Boromir took off his armor to let him examine the bruises from his fall into the orc den, the injured shoulder and the other scratches. “You have not told us your name, Strider,” he pointed out. It was his habit to initiate a conversation while the healers did their work, as Boromir disliked being exposed beneath their prodding fingers. Ever since the day his mother had died Boromir had consciously avoided appearing weak in front of others, and since his escape from the darkness beneath the dread city he found being exposed like this hard to bear. He disliked strangers prodding him, being vulnerable brought back memories he did not want to face. The tactic for escaping that discomfort originated with Thoroniár who had often made a report or discussed strategy with him, while Boromir was still in the healer’s claws.

 

“I rarely use my true name when servants of the enemy are too close by,” The Ranger replied, carefully cleaning the deep cut in Boromir’s shoulder. “And this wound must have been sustained days ago.”

 

Boromir shook his head. “Rangers, always playing games in the shadows…” Through Faramir, he understood their warfare, the secrecy, the things that would never come to light, even the need for a Ranger-name, because they fought a war in the shadows, countering the shadow’s deceit and treachery on his own grounds, fighting fire with fire and walking a path so deep in the darkness that their names often were forgotten, their deeds unknown and the courage they had to venture into the deepest recesses of the Shadow never recognised. It was not a kind of battle he would have been able to wage, Boromir preferred a blade in the clear sunlight, and he had seen the toll, the price his brother had paid for fighting the Enemy like this, and he honoured Faramir’s courage, even as he might be the only one outside Faramir’s own comrades who knew what _Iltareyn_ the _Grey Hawk_ had accomplished in the long years of struggle. “so Strider is your Ranger-name, then?”

 

“How long have you had this gash? You are very lucky to not be down with a fever,” Strider asked, his gaze locked with Boromir’s for a moment, his keen eyes probing Boromir for something, before he returned to cleaning the cut. There was little doubt that Strider did not trust him and Boromir was not yet sure how mutual the feeling was – Rangers rarely trusted anyone, and Boromir only trusted Rangers he knew.

 

“A few days,” Boromir answered. “An Orc jumped me in their den and his filthy nails made it under the chainmail.” He slightly tilted his head to study the other man’s face. “Did you earn your Ranger name by the Path of the Shadows or Walking the Ashes? You don’t seem the type for trial by Blood, though I have been mistaken before.” He initiated conversation again.

 

There was something akin to a smile on Strider’s face. “Should I be surprised that the Captain of Gondor is familiar with the custom? No, Strider is not my Ranger name, which was earned in the Shadows, Strider is only a name I am called here and there. I doubt you would know my Ranger name any better than this one.”  He hesitated briefly while bandaging the cut. “But your people used to call me Thorongil, the last time I spent time in your city.”

 

Thorongil! It was a named Boromir knew, having heard it for nearly all his life. The story of the attack on Umbar was one he had grown up with; the men who had fought beside Thorongil in that campaign had been the same who had taught Boromir the art of war. Through his father, he had also heard of the man, and his true name… and lineage. He would not have expected to ever truly meet the son of Arathorn, and certainly not in the middle of the lone lands guarding four Hobbits. “It is a name still well remembered,” he said keeping his voice levelly. He had not lied, he had heard of Thorongil all his live, people like Erhawn and Ragnir, the men who had trained him to be a soldier, had spoken of him and the attack of Umbar and when Boromir had first heard the whisper that Thorongil was in truth the son of Arathorn of the Dunedain, heir to Isildur Boromir had been intrigued by the story.

 

Back then, when he had been young he had even dreamed of one day meeting the uncrowned King – until he had grown up and joined the war against the Shadow. Again he studied Aragorn’s face, there was nothing obvious that would hint at such a revered ancestry and yet – there was something, an aura of nobility, of pride that could not be denied. Not that it mattered much – Boromir quickly pushed these thoughts aside. Gondor had survived without a King, they had stood against the Shadow without an Heir of Isildur to aid them, they did not need a King. And still… it was good to see that Aragorn was opposing the Shadow, even if it was in another place, in another errand.

 

The Ranger had not commented on what Boromir had said; most likely he did not want to discuss the events of the past, instead, he checked the scratches on Boromir’s neck. “Is that an Orc bite?”

 

“A storm surprised me in the Mountains and I found shelter in a cave, which led me into an Orc fortress of sorts…” While Kíli ahd called that place Goblin town, Boromir was not sure if this was the dwarven nickname for the Orc den. “.. I do not really know what kind of den it was.” He went on, wanting to shrug, but the Ranger’s hand stilled the movement, as he was treating the neck bite..

 

“Goblin Town,” Kíli supplied, his voice was soft and tired, barely a whisper above the crackling of the fire. He had sat down on the ground with his feet almost in the fire, knees drawn in, arms resting on them, curled up on himself like he was cold. “You must have entered through the south-eastern entrance, if I were to venture a guess.” The way he had drawn in on himself reminded Boromir of the night in the ruin, only this time there was less sadness in Kíli’s eyes and more exhaustion. How much had the last days taken out of the dwarf? He was good at maintaining a strong façade but ever since they had escaped Weathertop he had been pale and tired, though he pushed on like before.

 

Thorongil – the name came naturally to Boromir’s mind; it was easier to think of him as the Man his father and the other soldiers had spoken of – looked to the dwarf. “You were down there again because of their raiders, I take it?” He asked with the voice of a man who knew what he was speaking of.

 

“They attacked two settlements of my people and a hill village; it was high time someone gave them the message the only way can understand – bashed into their skulls,” Kíli replied, leaning further down on his knees, until his head nearly rested on them. His feet pushed forward, so the flames began to lick along the toes of his boots, without ever harming him. Boromir had seen Kíli play with the fire before – did he draw to the flame to seek shelter and comfort, or just warmth?

 

Boromir sat up straighter, glad that Thorongil was finishing up with the treatment so he could put his armor on again. “Why did you not take a few of your people with you?” He had never really asked why Kíli had been in that den in the first place or why he was so familiar with the rickety abyss the Goblins inhabited.

 

“Kíli has often aided villages against Orcs and trolls,” Strider said, “be it those of his people or those of men.” He gestured the dwarf to come over. “You are next.”

 

“I am not injured, except for a few bruises, and they won’t kill a dwarf,” Kíli insisted, staying where he was.

 

“Remember, you told me the same after we got out of that ruin north of Cameth Brin – and you only had a poisoned bolt in your leg,” Aragorn said, a friendly warmth echoing in his voice. His eyes went back to Boromir who could read the unspoken question in them. He titled his head slightly, just to confirm the healer’s question. Kíli needed the attention probably more than he had.

 

“And I would have survived that,” Kíli looked up, much like a cat annoyed to be disturbed in a nap. “what scratches I got Boromir already fussed over more than they were worth. Allow me to sleep a few hours and I shall be fine.”

 

Aragorn took the bowl with the sweet smelling liquid and squatted down beside Kíli. “You are only cold and freezing, you draw to the fire seeking warmth and you are trembling all over,” his voice was gentle, with the patience of a friend who knew that a comrade was disliking what was coming next. “and you are deathly pale… your kind may not have to fear infection but wounds still weaken you.”

 

“We’ve been traveling fast and without much rest in that weather, you know how the lone lands get this time of the year.” Kíli wrinkled his nose at the smell of the hot liquid; it seemed to draw him away from his wish to sleep.

 

“And I also know when you are evading treatment like it was Lord of the Deeps himself.” Aragorn said, reaching for Kíli. When he touched Kíli’s arm, the Ranger stilled. “Merciful Light, Kíli… the black breath? You are shadow-touched, much worse than even your companion is, you are steeped in it. What happened?”

 

Boromir frowned; he could not deny that Kíli was pale and seemed exhausted, prone to fall asleep right beside the fire- Should he have suffered more damage than he had let on? “We came upon one of the Nine near your old camp at Weathertop, Thorongil,” he said. “Kíli fought him… I did not see any direct injury.”

 

“Because there was none – the cold will go away once I move again,” Kíli snapped sitting up fully, the fatigued pose fading a little.

 

“More than a day?” Thorongil asked. “And you rode with that touch still upon you?”

 

Kíli shrugged, his dislike for the attention palpable in the gesture and in the way he kept being curled up on himself. “What other choice do I have?”

 

“Your kind was truly carved from stone in a freezing winter night and given life by the storm,” the Ranger murmured, quickly putting some other herbs in the still hot liquid. “You need to drink this; it will help you overcome the touch more swiftly.”

 

Boromir watched as Thorongil took care of Kíli. He had skill as a healer, he had to admit, and he obviously had experience with the damage the Enemy could do. Kíli slowly relaxed after his treatment, the exhaustion waning from his posture a little.

 

“Exactly how many Orcs did you run into?” Aragorn had begun treating the wound in Kíli’s side and shook his head at the state it was in. “That must have been quite the fight.”

 

“Some of the raiders that burned Watchhill came after an escapee and ran into us,” Kíli sat still, allowing the treatment, maybe he knew that there was no use to refuse. “You know how it gets, Strider, the lone lands never change.” His eyes strayed to the four Hobbits huddled by the fire. “I guess we will be on our way to Rivendell come morning?”

 

Boromir held his breath, he was sure had the suggestion come from him there would have been a clear refusal, but from Kíli Thorongil accepted the offer of aid.

 

TRB

 

It was as tense an evening as Boromir had ever seen and he knew his own person was partially the reason for that. He and the Ranger had taken to sit on opposite sides on the outer edge of the camp, keeping a watchful eye on the darkness outside while the Hobbits huddled closer to the fire. They sat so close with each other that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began, like their closeness could provide shelter from the darkness outside the small camp.

 

And Boromir would admit that they had every right to be afraid with what was chasing after them. Someone chased by the Nine and not afraid was either extraordinarily careless with his own life or the greatest fool on Arda. It puzzled Boromir what the Enemy might want with them but he put that question aside firmly. There would be time for such puzzles when they all were safely in Rivendell.

 

Now and then, a watchful glance passed between him and Thorongil. They both knew who the other was, a knowledge that did nothing to ease tensions between them and while they both trusted each other to not side with the Enemy, there was little other reason for trust here. If he was honest with himself Boromir was not yet sure what to make of this heir of Isildur, what to think, or maybe that was what he kept telling himself.

 

Up till now, Boromir had taken his father’s stories of Thorongil with some caution; he knew his father to be a judgmental man and not always to be fair – he had proved that often enough with the callous way he treated Faramir. He had hoped that there might be more to Isildur’s heir because his strength one day might be the hope of Gondor. Boromir had never liked the idea that Gondor’s survival might one day depend entirely on a stranger, but he could not outright deny it either. Yet, now that he had met Thorongil in person, the doubts came back all the more strongly, and his father’s grim words on the Ranger of the North who would rather roam the wilds than aid Gondor came back to him. _He left on a stranger’s errand instead of aiding his people; he is serving different masters,_ his father had said. _Isildur’s blood is weakened and spent, their last descendant skulking in the wilds of the North, neither a leader nor a warrior. Whatever care he still may hold for his people takes second place behind the errands for Mithrandir._

Boromir had heard Thorongil mention that it was Kíli who aided the settlements of men against the Orcs, and while he respected the dwarf for aiding those who needed him, it was obvious Kíli was fighting alone. And it would be Thorongil’s damned duty to protect the remaining settlements of men, to help them survive against the Orcs, and to be their _Leader_ while he was at it, but he did not do it. Or was he truly so detached from the fate of his people?  If he cared, he would have come back to them to fight the Shadow long ago.

 

And there was the thought that truly rankled – Gondor had been at constant war for most of Boromir’s life and the place of Gondor’s King would have been with them, fighting the war against the Shadow, not wandering the wilds of the lone lands. If Arnor was so much beyond rescue why had he not led his remaining people South and joined his homeland again?

 

“These must be the trolls old Bilbo encountered on his journey,” Pippin piped up from where he hunched over the fire as close to the flickering flames as their heat would allow. “Are they, Frodo?”

 

“I think so.” Frodo looked across the fire to Kíli. “Uncle Bilbo never quite told the entire tale, except that they argued on how to cook Dwarves.”

 

Kíli smiled, he was a lot better after the treatment of his wounds and not in immediate danger of dropping from exhaustion any more. “They did… but there was more to it that…” And with that he launched into a tale of stolen ponies, scouting after trolls, and a fight around a campfire that led to their capture.

 

Boromir could not help but listen with some amusement and fascination to the story Kíli was relating. Some aspects of the tale touched Boromir – how Thorin, the Dwarf leader, was willing to die rather than sacrifice one of his men. It was something noble and foolish all at once, yet Boromir found it hard to fault the brave Dwarf for it. Kíli related the debate between Bilbo and trolls so lively, he made Frodo laugh and Thorongil chuckle. For a moment, the darkness pressing upon their camp retreated a little.

 

Night passed in blessed quiet. Thorongil and Boromir shifted watch, with Kíli taking the dog’s watch in the early hours before dawn. They woke the Hobbits once the cold morning mists crept up and the first grey light graced the eastern horizon, and broke camp soon after. Boromir noticed that Frodo was paler than he had been in the evening, and very quiet as they began their march. Their path led through the last of the woods and towards far more open grounds. Boromir frowned when he saw the wide open land stretch before them. It would be a dangerous crossing; they’d be exposed and easily be spotted by a beast-rider or a Wraith on Wings. In the woods they at least had some cover.

 

They just had left the forest fence behind them when a fierce howl rose into the cold light of the morning. More howls joined in from the south; it was hard to tell how many – dozens at the very least. The Hobbits retreated close to Frodo like they could shield him by their mere presence, while Thorongil’s eyes darted in the directions from whence the Howls came. “Warg-packs.” Kíli reached for his bow as the howls rang out behind them too.

 

Boromir stopped; there was little doubt what was happening here. The hunters, or rather their minions, had found them. The Enemy had numbers on his side, like always.  Swiftly he assessed the grounds before them. The forest edge was as bad grounds as the wide land before them. Making a run for it would not work. His eyes fell on a hilltop strewn with grey boulders. It was not much, but all they had. Striding uphill he looked for his companion. “Kíli – is there a way to make them mad enough to attack?”

 

“Surely, but why?”

 

“Do it.” Boromir handed the reins of his horse to Thorongil. “You and Kíli get the Halflings out of here – I’ll buy you time.”

 

Thorongil shook his head. “You won’t survive such a battle; there are too many of them.”

 

“There is no strength in numbers,” Kíli said, taking his place beside Boromir. “we’ll hold them off. Be swift – and don’t look back.”

 

Amazed Boromir looked at his companion – Kíli was wounded, had come through the Black Breath only recently and he’d commit himself to a battle to the death without a second thought. He did not protest the decision; they had promised each other to allow their friend into their battles. And if he was honest he was glad to not face their last fight alone – there was little doubt that they’d have to face the Orcs first and maybe a Nazgul behind. But what other choice did they have?

 

“Even with two you stand no chance,” Thorongil was still looking for a way out, but the howls of the wargs came closer and closer.

 

Boromir fixed his best no-nonsense glare at him, looking at the Ranger as though he were a disobedient soldier under his command. “I said go. Don’t waste time on debates,” he snapped. “They need you. As a healer, you are the only one who can help Frodo.”

 

Kíli put Merry and Sam on his pony, with Pippin on the other; Boromir’s horse remained for Thorongil and Frodo. The three horses galloped off east, the only way still open to them. The howls rose again, louder this time, Wargs appearing on the tree-line and south of them: dozens, and all mounted with Orcs.

 

“Enough for both of us.” Kíli drew his sword, ready to fight. Boromir shot him a grin, glad this was his companion. He knew full well that they were committed to a battle to the death, and he knew the Dwarf would walk that path with him without flinching. There was a comforting strength in that, in knowing the warrior at one’s back would not shy away from death, could face the last fight with a smile, or maybe he just had to believe that. Back to back they stood at the hilltop, facing the enemy.

****

TRB

****

The Wargs came swooping down at Boromir and Kíli; the loud war cries of their riders ripped the silence of the autumn day apart. Before they came close, the Orcs showered a dozen arrows down on them. Boromir ducked, behind one of the boulders the black feathered arrows either hitting the hard rock or hissing by the boulder, missing him. Kíli’s blade whirled in a shining circle, knocking several arrows out of their path, it was a trick Boromir had never seen before, no sane soldier would even try to do such a jester’s trick. But it worked, not one of the arrows reached the dwarf.

 

When the full attack began, it was Orcs on foot that first stormed from the woods uphill at them. Three at once attacked Boromir. He moved aside, let one run into the wrong direction, and attacked the second swiftly, his blade sinking through the ramshackle armor with a loud crunch, while the third one landed a hit that was caught by Boromir’s chain mail, sending only a numb pain through his muscles. The first Orc had no chance to return as he was stabbed by Kíli who was dealing with several opponents at the same time. With a deadly grace, Boromir evaded the next attack, turning fast towards one of them who was attacking Kíli from behind and slashing the Orc’s head from the bone-deformed shoulders. The quick turn had given what strength was needed to cut clear through the heavy armor, though the momentum made him nearly stumble, a weakness another Orc tried to exploit only to meet his end on Kíli’s blade. Hardly did Boromir have the time to bring up his blade when the two next came at him; he blocked the first one’s attack with practiced ease, breaking the blade free with one fluid move. The other fell from a strike from the side – Kíli had gotten him. With a nod, Boromir acknowledged the help before returning his focus to the battle.

 

As the fight continued Boromir’s world narrowed until there was nothing left but this hill, and the Orcs rushing at them, the rest of the world was faded away, and only this battle existed. He fought with all the strength he had, his blade dealing death and pain to those daring to come close, not even the sickening sounds when his blade ate through their bones reaching him anymore. Boromir’s mind had gone cold, with no room for fear, hope or even survival, there were no feelings for the slaughter they stood in, no room for horror and no time for recognizing pain. His blade beheaded the next Orc, ducking to evade an Orc axe and coming up again to fight on. His attacks came down like a hailstorm on the Orcs; he did not count how many fell beneath his blade. He saw one Orc run off the hill and back to his people, but there was no chance to stop him with several fresh ones rushing in. Moving so fast the Goblins had a hard time keeping up with him, nearly every new strike of his sword found a target. He knew Kíli had his back and that there were as many Orcs falling from the Dwarf’s ever-angry blade as his own. It was a miracle that they found the rhythm to fight together like this without having ever sparred, with being trained by weapon’s masters who would not even know their names, but they fought together like they had been trained to do so.

 

Kíli was the one to kill the last Goblin who tried to run from the fighting field, the last who thought it wise to run back to the circle the Warg riders had former around the hill. Over his shoulder, the Dwarf checked on Boromir, before him lay at least a dozen dead Orcs strewn all over the ground that was now splattered with their vile black blood. Boromir met his gaze and it did not need any words between them.

 

It was the Warg riders that came next. Their huge beasts did not easily lend themselves to group attacks but they too came in groups of four or five at once. Boromir did not need prior experience fighting them to know he had to keep their fangs at a distance. The first that made the mistake to try and bite him found several of its ugly teeth shattered. The beast roared and broke off, ending with Boromir’s blade buried in its thick neck. He did not stop but attacked the next one, not counting how many more there might be. Boromir fought on, one after the next, one beast and rider at a time. He hardly felt the cuts and bruises he sustained. He knew that every moment they tied these wolves down, each moment these monsters had to waste on killing them, Thorongil and the Halflings drew closer to Rivendell. It was all he needed to find his strength time and again, to hold out no matter what – others were relying on him to stand firm and hold the defences. And thus the Captain of Gondor stood and fought. He knew he had a friend at his back, one to hold off whatever tried to sneak up behind him, and they held out.

 

The shadows were growing longer as the sun wandered more and more west. The hill had long become a bloody morass of dark corpses, mud and blood, the yellow autumn grass tainted red and black. The attack ceased for the moment, but still the Warg riders held the ring around the two comrades.

 

Boromir leaned back and tried to catch his breath. Judging by the leaden feeling in his arms and his muscles, the skirmish must have lasted for hours. His arms were numb, and a blade had hit through the chainmail to cut into his side, while his left leg was bleeding from a surface wound, and he did not even notice the bruises any more. He felt warm by now, but he knew that this was the heat of fighting and would be gone soon to be replaced by bone-numbing cold. His eyes surveyed the enemy ranks. The wolf circles had grown thin, but not yet thin enough for them to attempt to break it. He glanced over his shoulder. “Kíli?”

 

“Still standing.” The Dwarf’s face was marred with a bloody smear where he had made hard contact with a Warg snout. His sword was dark with blood, the blade gory, but the hilt seemed eerily clean still. Kíli, too, had turned his head, the same checking glance that Boromir had employed. “You all right?” he asked.

 

“Never better,” Boromir joked grimly. “Your injury?” he added in a softer voice, Kíli had come through a brutal fight again and the wound in his side must be strained by it.

 

“Don’t worry, it won’t kill me too soon.” Kíli leaned slightly against one of the rocks, allowing himself all the rest he could get. Boromir did not detect any fear in his eyes, nor horror, and it made him warm to the dwarf even more. Kíli too had learned to not be ruled by fear, to not allow the fact that he was standing in the blood of his enemies affect him, he’d not allow the horror of blood to drive him mad.

 

Boromir’s eyes went back the ring of Orcs surrounding them. “What are they waiting for?” Orcs only stopped like this when waiting for their Harad or Easterling captains to issue new orders. And that only worked if their commander was well feared and cruel enough to make them obey him. But these pale Goblins would have neither the discipline nor an Easterling commander or at least he hoped that. For a moment Boromir wondered how Shakurán, the Legion commander from Minas Morgul, would fare commanding these Mountain bred monsters, he’d probably be disgusted and feel them beneath the dignity of a civilized Easterling. Trading some barbs about them with him while fighting would be the least Boromir would hear of it. The thought was amusing, though he was glad that the Nine did not have the highly capable Easterling here to aid their hunt.

 

“Their leader, most likely,” Kíli pointed out, surveying their ranks for the appearance of a commander. “He’ll want a go at us for himself.”

 

Boromir heard an echo of tension creep in Kíli’s voice. The Dwarf hid it well, but it was there. He knew something of what was coming; maybe knew something of this Orc leader. Having long lived in his land, he was probably as familiar with their kind, as Boromir was with the different garrison commanders along Gondor’s eastern borders. “Then we’ll kill him too.”

 

“Will you?” a deep, hard voice answered his statement from the top of the opposite hill. There was unrest rising in the Orc ranks as they moved aside, their ranks opening for one huge figure.

 

Boromir looked to the southern ridge whence the voice had come. A huge Warg with thick grey fur had appeared there, mounted by a tall, heavily armoured Orc. He seemed bigger than most of his kind, who made room for him.

 

“Bolg.” Kíli’s voice had fallen to only a whisper. His shoulders tensed and he grabbed his sword with both hands, his whole stance telling Boromir the dwarf was getting ready for a dire fight.

 

Boromir’s eyes surveyed the figure astride the huge grey wolf, the mount itself was impressive enough, larger than most of the wargs he had seen so far, with a powerful build that hinted at a merciless strength hidden in its monstrous paws and jaws. The Orc riding the grey wolf was paler than those Boromir knew from Mordor, but he was nearly as big as the black Orcs from the Ephel Duath. Broad shoulders, very muscular and clad in a steel armor, this Orc held himself with a confidence unusual for his race.

 

Bolg growled with something like a cruel grin on his face. “Dwarf-scum. I have long waited for this, little coward. I remember you… Kíli unda Thorin.” He pointed his huge curved blade down at them in challenge, marking his prey.

 

Boromir could not even begin to guess what kind of history lay between his Dwarven companion and the huge Orc. There was something in the way Kíli spoke the name of the Orc that told Boromir more than any explanation. Even while he tried to hide it, there was a wealth of hate and pain in that one word. Stranger still, the Orc also had used Kíli’s name incorrectly, Kíli unda Thorin instead of Kíli unda Dari, but who knew what that stupid beast was thinking?

 

There was an enmity in the air that could not be denied. Kíli’s face tensed, his jaw set in a grim determination. “I survived you twice, Bolg – this won’t be any different.”

 

The Orc laughed, a deep, guttural sound, while he raised his arms wide in a gesture that invited attack and mocked his opponent. “Remember your brother? How you screamed when he died? How you ran to save him… but he died, smashed to pieces, dying on the cold grounds with you wailing like a whelp…”

 

“Your father lay dead on the same field,” Kíli spat, even as the colour drained from his face and his eyes darkened.

 

This beast had been there when Kíli’s brother died? Now Boromir began to understand Kíli’s reaction to this foe. But whatever memories the Orc invoked, Kíli’s stance did not falter nor did he give ground, only his eyes betrayed the pain he might feel.

 

“As did yours… ” Bolg continued his taunts, “they all died, hacked to pieces, begging for their death… like you down in the deeps...” The Orc drawled the words with obvious relish. “No one will save your from the chains this time.”

 

The Warg jumped forward, and Kíli leaped to the side, making the beast land in the mud. Boromir had held back, this had turned from a battle to a duel of sorts, and while Orcs rarely fought single combat, there was an unspoken rule to not interfere into such fights.

 

The next bout brought the warg past Kíli with Bolg’s sabre striking down at him, the dwarf swiftly parried the attack, pushing Bolg nearly from his saddle. With a fierce snarl, the wolf came around. The huge paw swiped the sword from Kíli’s hand, Boromir was surprised to see the Warg’s strength, for the beast was quick to disarm Kíli, the jaws snapping and snarling. His hands closed more firmly around the hilt of his sword, honor demanded that he leave this duel run it’s course, friendship demanded he end this here and now.

 

Kíli had back away from the warg to gain a breather but before the Dwarf could retreat, a second swipe of the powerful paws tossed him to the ground. Bolg raised his sword. “You will bleed…”

 

“Let’s see who will be bleeding, Mountain-Maggot!” Boromir shouted the challenge to the enemy as he sprinted to where Kíli had fallen, standing between the Orc and his prey. He did not speak much Orcish, but recognized enough words to understand their orders when happening to overhear them – excepting a few choice expletives and insults he had learned in dark places, and he was liberal to add them here. Sword in hands he stood facing the Grey Warg and its rider. This might not be the honourable course of action, but if he had learned something from fighting Shakurán and his ilk in twenty long years, then it was that it took the breaking of the rules to win.  Bolg angrily growled and raised his sabre. “I’ll gut you, scum. Your Dwarfling has not seen a friend die in too long.” He spurned his Warg. It raced down the hill and at them, large paws clawing the slippery ground.

 

Boromir saw the huge Warg rush at him and he advanced only by half a step to have the ideal battle stance, facing the beast without fear – without any anger or eagerness either. All those emotions had burned to ash inside him; he faced this new adversary with an icy, unflinching cold. A few paces away from him, the Warg jumped at him. Boromir saw that coming: few Warg riders had dared to do it on these uneven grounds, but it came as no surprise that the largest of them would try. Boromir waited him out until the huge wolf was up in the air, then he deftly dropped to his knee and brought up his sword, the blade fully hitting the Warg’s belly.

 

The wolf howled in pain as its jump broke, and the beast crashed to the ground. The sword was nearly ripped from Boromir’s hand by the powerful body’s momentum. He only managed to keep hold of it and swiftly was back on his feet. Not one moment too soon – Bolg had abandoned his mount and raced at him with a howl as the angry screams of his dying Warg were taken up by every Warg still alive. The bloodcurdling howls sent a cold shiver down Boromir’s spine. On most days, the haunting sound might have even caused him to feel fear, but on this day all it did was fuel his anger.

 

One glance to the side told Boromir that Kíli had been surrounded by several Orcs, and was in the process of fighting them off. They must have rushed him the moment Bolg had turned against Boromir. The Dwarf was surrounded: having no one to cover his back, he was at a disadvantage but at least he had been able to pick his sword up again, and he fought with fierce determination.

 

Bolg’s parry of the next attacks were strong, their blades clashing loudly, the Orc used Boromir’s attack to land a hit, smashing through the chainmail. Hot blood seeped down his chest.  Catching the blade when it came down again, Boromir let it slide down his sword until it hit the guard, and  their encounter turned to a different test of strength for a few moments before Boromir forced his sword free, making Bolg stumble under the weight of the push. The Orc recovered very quickly, though, and Boromir knew that he would not be able to keep this up for very long. The huge Orc was stronger than nearly any of their ugly kind he had ever encountered, and his weapon was heavy. So Boromir went for the one thing the beast lacked – speed. He began to make the Orc run, evading attacks and never standing in one place. It was a dangerous tactic because, either way, this fight was draining his strength more than he could afford. He missed the next block, simply because he could not bring up his sword quickly enough.

 

Another pass, longsword and Orcblade colliding, steel shrieking under the heavy impact. Boromir pushed off the bladelock and advanced again at his foe. Valar, this creature was powerful. A graze hit his leg but what armor he had still left held off the worst.

 

Kíli had broken to one knee under an attack, two more Orcs grabbing him by the shoulders, forcing him down with their weight. He was not captured yet, but only moments away from it. Boromir saw the clawmarks at throat and arms, Kíli’s struggle against them had been brutal, if short-lived, like his own duel with Bolg had not lasted all that long.

 

Boromir brought down two heavy attacks on Bolg but found both easily parried. The forceful attacks made him stumble backwards and barely parried a fierce hit. He saw Bolg lick his lips. “Don’t you want to give up, dwarf-scum? I might spare your friend here.”

 

The words send a cold shiver down Boromir’s spine, the sick game that creature was playing all too clear for him. Kíli had seen his family die in battle, cruelly so, if Bolg’s words were any indication, how many more friends he had buried was left for Boromir to guess. But the way Kíli disregarded his own life now began to make sense to Boromir, as did the feeling that something essential was lacking in Kíli. He had lost something, part of his soul buried on some long forgotten battlefield. And without even needing to ask Boromir knew that Kíli would give himself up, if it was to safe him. And he knew he’d fight and die to spare Kíli the very same fate. He had to come up with something… with something this Mountain beast had not seen before.

 

“Don’t listen to him, Kíli!” Boromir snapped, hoping Kíli would trust him, trust him to still see a way out of this dire situation. They were not at an end yet, he had seen worse – much worse, the tricks only an Easterling mind could cook up and succeed at. And Boromir knew he’d never win this fight  conventionally.

 

Kìli’s gaze met his and there was strength, pain and a grim determination in his gaze. He grabbed the hand of one of the Orcs holding him down and tossed the beast off.

 

A grim grin twisted Boromir’s features into something he hardly recognized. Kíli’s actions had just given him the tactic he had not seen before. Charging at Bolg, he pretended to stumble, letting the next attack purposefully hit him. A searing pain rose from his shoulder, but for a moment Bolg’s blade was at an odd angle. Boromir brought up his sword and in one thrust made use of the Orc’s overextension. His blade hit home, straight into the exposed throat, black blood spluttered from the deep wound. The huge Orc fell to the ground, and Boromir ripped his sword from its throat, making the few steps uphill to reach Kíli again. The Dwarf had managed to break free of the Orcs again, and gather up his blade anew, he fought them best that he could but his steps were faltering. Boromir caught the Orcs in their backs, disposing of the last of them swiftly.

 

Exhausted Kíli found support in one of the boulders. “You did it – you killed him.” The words came out shorter than their usual rich, extended syllables, huffed out between sharp breaths, but there was a fierce grin on his face. “You destroyed Bolg.”

 

“Aye.” They turned again, standing back to back. Both were tired, injury and exhaustion draining what was left of their strength. A shocked silence fell – the Orcs seemed stunned by the fall of their leader, and only for this one moment Boromir hoped they might retreat. But then a shrill shrieked ripped through the silence and one of the Warg riders raised his spear. Bolg’s whole force began to move. Driven by sheer anger, all that remained of the Orc troop attacked at once.

 

From afar, a horn sounded.


	6. Where many paths and errands meet

** Chapter 5:  Where many paths and errands meet **

****

Boromir’s sword shrieked like it was going to break as a forceful attack ripped it from his hand the Orc axe hooking right behind the guard and flinging the blade across the field. He used his equally battered dagger, to cut deep into the Orc’s exposed side, pushing him back for the moment. Hastily he retreated two steps, his eyes scanning the ground for a weapon. Any still serviceable Orc saber would do. But all blades he saw were either broken or out of reach, he ducked under the angry Orc’s next attack, his pulse was racing when he felt the heavy blade miss him only by a hair’s breath. He evaded the next attack by a hard roll over the ground that gained him a few paces of space from his opponent that was already storming in his direction again.

 

“Boromir – catch!” Kíli reached to his back and grabbed his axe.

 

He saw Kíli break free from his own fight against two Orcs and throw his axe towards him. It whirled through the air,  turning several times before it cleanly cleaved the attacking Orc’s skull, the huge Orc fell landing in the grass , not a hand span from Boromir’s boots.

 

Boromir marveled how Kíli had been able to throw the weapon that precisely, this was a battle axe not a throwing axe. He had no time to think. Riders began to appear on the Southern ridge, galloping towards them. Deftly, Boromir picked up the weapon, it was slightly heavier than he had expected but it was perfectly balanced, as he found on when he brought it down on the next Orc. The silvery blade cut through the Orc’s armor like it was made of leather, not steel. He did not waste time, beheading the next Orc, he cast a glance over his shoulder, seeing Kíli was already retreating towards him. The dwarf understood him without words – they needed to close ranks, in case the riders were the Orc’s allies.

 

He turned around to kill one of the last warg riders in the vicinity, bringing down the animal last, another warg raced close, but Boromir was faster, the axe eating deep into the beast’s skull.

 

Boromir yanked the axe free of the dead warg and turned towards the next Orc to fight on, but before he could hit him, the Orc was felled by a spear from behind

 

The Riders had reached the hill and fanned out, charging into battle. Taking a step back he closed ranks with Kíli best that he could, axe ready to cut at the first of them to come close. Exhaustion and anger warred inside him, as he saw the riders circle the hill. _Hope is the dawn that drives away the Orcs but brings Haradrim reinforcements._ The old barb proved true again it seemed. Raising his chin he forced down any fear that wanted to rise inside him, the riders would not find him an easy victim.

 

But the Riders charged past them, spears raining down on the remaining Orcs, and arrows got those who had the sense to try and run. The riders swooped around the hill, clearing the area thoroughly. Their formation was utterly foreign to Boromir, neither the Haradrim nor the Varigians utilized groups of twelve in that fashion.

 

Confused he exchanged a quick glance with his comrade. Who were those riders? And from where in this lone, forlorn land had they come? He met the dwarf’s black eyes and found his gaze sparkling with relief, Kíli had lowered the sword and the tension had faded from his posture, but in this moment his eyes said more than anything else. They had lost their grim expression and almost laughed. . “Friendly?” Boromir asked softly, wanting to hope but hardly trusting himself to do so. The riders were foreign and moving too fast to examine either armor or any coat of arms they might show.

“Elves,” Kíli replied, exhaustion and relief warring in his voice. “And yes – they are friendly.”

 

“If you claimed otherwise, son of Dari, I would have to remind you that we are not our esteemed kin over in Mirkwood.” One rider had broken ranks from the troop and approached them, his pale grey horse having no troubles climbing the slippery hillside, and navigated a path between the bodies without apparent guidance.

 

Boromir lowered the weapon, slightly leaning on the axe that now touched the ground as he studied the rider quietly. He was Elven, there could be no doubt of that – the lightweight stature alone was a clear indicator of his ancestry, not to mention the pointed ears visible amongst the mane of flowing black hair. Had an elf stepped out of one of Faramir’s tales of the Elder Days, this was what Boromir would have expected him to look like.

 

Kíli bowed slightly, his movements stiff and slow. “I apologize, Elrohir son of Elrond. I would not imply that you were a Wood-elf.”

 

Elrohir dismounted, humor sparkling in his grey eyes. “And they would take grave offense if you did, Kíli.” His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the hill they were standing on, taking in the carnage, the number of corpses strewn all over the grounds, his eyes came back to them like he was wondering how they could still be standing with all the dead enemies piled up around them. “It seems we came just in time – had your raven friend not found me when he did, I fear we’d only have found your corpses on this hill.”

 

“I hardly dared to hope there would be any help coming,” Kíli said with a blunt honesty that made Boromir wince, Faramir had educated him on elves before he had left for Imladris and he had insisted that Elves valued politeness immeasurably more than many King of Men might. “Did the others make it across the river?”

 

“Glorfindel was the one who went for them; and I should not wish to be the Nazgul that comes between him and one he is protecting, they should all be safe in Imladris by now.” Again his eyes strayed to the battle-marred hill. “You two made the Orcs pay a dear price for hunting four Hobbits in the wild. And… is this indeed Bolg and his foul mount?”

 

“Boromir slew him.” Kíli pointed towards where Bolg’s corpse lay. “he saved my life there.”  Before Boromir could speak up and correct the praise somewhat, Kíli had turned to him again, and there was a small shift in his stance, he stood straight, even as it must hurt with his injuries, a more formal air settling on him. . “Elrohir, may I introduce my companion – this is Boromir of Gondor. He was on his way to your father’s court when all this began. Boromir, this is Elrohir, son of Elrond of Rivendell.”

 

“It must be something desperate that brings the Captain of Gondor so far north in times like these,” Elrohir said, tipping his head in acknowledgement, but did not make up more formalities. This was a battlefield, not his father’s court. “Our healers will see to your injuries. Then we will ride back to Rivendell.”

 

The Elves had chosen the next hilltop for their makeshift camp, some of their number taking care of their own wounded and checking on horses that had been injured while about half their riders remained mounted, circling the hill in watchful guard. Boromir was glad to sit down on a rock. Now that the heat of battle was fading from his blood, he became fully aware of his injuries and of the exhaustion settling in. “Raven?” he asked Kíli, who had dropped down right beside him. He recalled seeing a raven on Kíli’s hand two days ago at the bridge, but he had paid it no heed.

 

“Kíli’s family is one of the rare Houses among Dwarves that speak the language of the ravens,” Elrohir, , replied instead of Kíli, as he joined them after speaking swiftly to one of his riders.  Looking to the side Boromir saw that Kíli’s eyes were searching the skies, like he was looking for the black winged messenger and truly a huge raven swooped down form the skies to land on Kíli’s outstretched arm.

 

“Thank you, my friend, you saved the two of us,” Boromir was not sure if Kíli had spoken to Elrohir or to the bird on his hand. But the raven cawed loudly, preening a little before taking back to the air.

 

Another elf joined them; to Boromir’s eyes he looked strange, nothing like the stories claimed elves looked like: his hair was as pale as sea-foam and eyes like the wide seas on a stormy winter day. “My name is Ivordaer,” he introduced himself, speaking the Western tongue in a pleasant, melodious way. “I will see to your injuries.” Boromir gestured him off, while he was tired and felt like he could sleep for a week, he was not that badly wounded. “Kíli first; he took the worst -,

 

“’Tis nothing, Ivordaer,” Kíli spoke up. “You know me, scratches, bruises and some bite marks, nothing a good night’s sleep can’t cure. Boromir had a direct confrontation with Bolg… and the son of Azog was his usual nasty self.” There was an echo of worry in Kíli’s voice that surprised Boromir, it was not just the usual evading the healer’s fuss, he was sure of that. Like Kíli expected a brutal… lethal damage out of this one Orc. He recalled how the Orc had bragged having been there when Kíli’s brother had died – who knew how many loss Kíli could attribute to this Orc’s…bloodline? Boromir was not used to think of Orcs in terms of family, but it seemed appropriate in this case.

 

The Elf’s eyes strayed between them for a moment, he did not seem to grasp what Kíli had indirectly spoken off, or so it appeared to Boromir, for he spoke on like nothing had happened. “You have heard your comrade, Boromir of Gondor, I will agree with him as far as the stony endurance of his kind goes. However, Kíli I know you are at least as badly injured and I will have no further debate out of either of you.”

 

Boromir did not object again; no warrior in his right sense tried arguing with a healer. And while he hated being weak or being made fuss over, he knew that some of the injuries would heal faster if he let the Elf do his task. He had to bite down a wince when he removed his battered chain mail armor and tunic. The cold air of the day pebbled against his skin and seemed to almost burn in several gashes on his torso. He was much tempted to call an end to this, he disliked being exposed in an unsafe place and in front of strangers even more so. He was not weak, he could deal with whatever had happened to him. To distract himself hecontinued the conversation instead. “But how did you find us so swiftly?” he asked Elrohir. “Even with the raven being some kind of sign…”

 

Ivordaer began to clean the large gash in Boromir’s side, while his touch was gentle, almost fleeting it was unnerving and the smell of the liquid he used for the cleaning stung in Boromir’s nose, for some reason reminding him of Orc liquors. His stomach clenched he had smelled similar things in the dungeons… and his mind refused to note the difference. The elf worked swiftly, like he was sensing Boromir’s discomfort.

 

“It was not a sign – Arioc told me of your situation, all that Kíli had told him to tell me and all he had observed on his own, which gave me a good idea where you should be. Once we closed in on you, it was a simple matter of following the Warg howls.” Elrohir explained.

 

So the raven had spoken... Boromir recalled stories of his childhood that claimed birds had a language of their own, and that Elves could speak to all animals. Fairy tales to tell children and yet, here they were in the flesh, he allowed the idea to become stronger in his mind, picturing the raven on Kíli’s hand again, it distracted him from the probing fingers cleaning another wound of splinters.

 

“What exactly happened?” Elrohir asked. “What set the Wargs on your trail?”

 

The way he asked was familiar to Boromir – this was a captain speaking, wanting a report of what had happened on his border. He would have asked the very same thing, because it was vital for planning the defense. The familiar way of thinking helped him to ignore the healer, who after having bandaged the gashes in his side nowwas taking stock of the neck bite Thorongil had treated the day prior. , he straightened. “We found the four Halflings and Thorongil…” He hesitated; no, that was not the name the man used here. “Strider... in a vale off the road, near some stone trolls.” He quickly summed up the events from that moment to the hunt and the fight with the Warg troop. “The rest you saw,” he finished.

 

“They were searching for Baggins,” Kíli added to Boromir’s report of events. The healer was finally done with Boromir. Swiftly he donned the tunic and armor again, it was good to feel the familiar weight settle on his shoulders.

 

“Baggins.” Elrohir arched an eyebrow in a gesture of surprise. “It seems that much greater things than just a Dragon were set in motion all those years ago when your uncle led your people back to the Mountain home, Kíli. Do not fear, Bilbo is safe. He has been in Rivendell for quite some time.”

 

“I am glad to hear that. I knew he had planned to leave the Shire as he grew older; he spoke of it the last time we met,” Kíli said, he had stepped aside like to evade Ivordaer who now stood two steps opposite of him.

 

The dwarf heaves a sigh, giving in to the inevitable. Slowly he unbuckled the heavy leather band across his chest and slipped off the scabbard on his back, his arms moving slowly as he had to stretch them. The leather coat followed, before he began to remove the armor. Boromir could not help being fascinated, it seemed that there were a number of layers of leather and steel that made up Kíli armor, small wonder that he had been able to withstand so many attacks like he did. It certainly looked heavy and sturdy, heavier than Boromir would have felt comfortable to march with. When he reluctantly shed the leather tunic he wore beneath the chain mail armor, Boromir thought for a moment that Kíli had suffered a shoulder wound – for a long jagged mark of a sickly dark colour ran over his left shoulder. But then he realised that it was a scar – an ugly, dark scar surrounded by yellow to brownish speckles, giving the scar an even unhealthier look. Boromir knew such marks, the wound had been badly infected. He wondered how Kíli might have survived that one without losing his arm. “Had I know he was in such danger, I’d have offered to accompany him.” Kíli said, like he too was trying to distract himself from the treatment.

 

Elrohir did not reply, maybe to not distract the healer from his task, but more likely because another elf had approached him to report.

 

Ivordaer had begun to treat Kíli’s injuries and Boromir noticed that he was not as impatient as he had seemed to be with Boromir’s fidgeting. “Kíli,” The elf’s voice still was on the edge of being stern, “some of these wounds are days old and only marginally treated. You may rely on your people’s stony endurance to survive but this is the easiest way to get yourself killed.”

 

“They’ll have to work for sending me home to our maker,” Kíli replied, sitting down to allow the elf access to the injuries, though he was tense, his shoulders rigid and his entire posture reminiscent of a caged animal trying to run.

 

Boromir only cast a fleeting glance at the Dwarf, he knew how much he too hated stares in such situations. But he could not help notice the numerous marks on his back: sword scars… lash marks… and a brand under the shoulder-blade. If scars told a history, these bespoke a wealth of horrors and having been hacked nearly to pieces at least once. It made the healer’s patience all the more understandable.

 

The elf worked gently, obviously he was aware of Kìli’s tension and tried to work around it. But the longer the treatment went the more tense Kíli became. “Can’t you make this short, Ivordaer?” he asked after a while. “It won’t kill me most likely.”

 

“Some of them might, if you skip treatment,” Ivordaer said calmly. “That gash on your back cuts across several scars. If that gets infected…”

 

“I only once had an infected wound, and the Goblins had to work for that even,” Kíli snapped. Wincing, he took a deep breath, calming himself.

 

“And it came very close to see you buried, if that scar on your shoulder is any indication,” Ivordaer’s voice too was tense. “and the Light alone knows what the Orcs smeared on their blade this time – the wound needs cauterizing or it will kill you.”

 

“No!” Kíli’s voice had sunken to a growl and Boromir read all the alarm he needed in it. He had seen the brand on his back and who knew what story linked with it? Probably one that led straight into another Orc den and into another story of horror. He understood all too well – and the healer made the mistake to push where he better did not apply pressure. It was a dangerous thing to press on any warrior’s nightmares.

 

Rising to his feet he went over to them, sitting down on a rock beside Kíli, he had talked some of his men, some friends, through such moments before. It took only one round of Orc hospitality to leave some marks that would never fade and Kíli’s reactions spoke for more than just one round of that. “Kíli,” the address was enough to gain him attention, the dark eyes shifted their gaze to him, though there was no verbal response. “part of surviving is knowing when to accept help.”

 

The black eyes darkened a little more, like stones falling into shadow, but then there was a nod, a small nod, but acceptance. “Sometimes surviving is not all that great,” Kíli said softly, he had fully turned to Boromir, but did not fidget any more.

 

Boromir gave the healer a glance, only a wink of the eyes not more, but enough to signal him to go on, to use the time he had. “Surviving is all we have,” he replied, focusing entirely at Kíli, he had said before that he believed Kíli put little value in his own life, but now he began to wonder if there was a part of Kíli who would prefer to die. “to come back and annoy the enemy once more. Because if we don’t, who will?” It was not his best motivational speech but it reached Kíli, who relaxed a tiny bit.

 

“You are right about that,” the dwarf said, his voice still low. “and there’s still enough left to fight for. Come to think of it – I never asked you what brought you so far North.”

 

It was a distraction, if he had ever seen one, but Boromir was willing to not poke at Kíli’s grim tendency to disregard his own survival. Few warriors would allow discussing such tendencies. “Seeking advice, seeking answers maybe.” He replied, keeping things vague. He was surprised at himself that he would have liked to share his errand with Kíli, but he was barred from doing so by his father’s orders. “There also were a few events surrounding Mithrandir’s last visit to my city.”

 

Ivordaer had heated a surgical blade and closed in, Kíli tensed like he could sense the heated blade long before it came close. Boromir lightly grasped his arm, it was an old trick, giving a man something to hold onto while a painful treatment was underway. At least it was no amputation. “Tharkûn… him…” Kíli growled, his hand closing around Boromir’s forearm. “I’d surely wonder as well.”

 

Ivordaer began the treatment and Kíli’s torso jerked much as he tried to keep still, his grip around Boromir’s arm becoming hard.

 

“Why?” Boromir asked more for the sake of distraction than anything. If he could make Kíli not focus on the pain of the treatment, it would make things easier.

 

“He has his own plans, his own agendas…” Kíli’s voice strained to breaking. “he puts things in motions… provides the means to begin and cares little for the rest. I doubt he cared, or even asked, when my Uncle… when Fíli died…” his voice was shaky at the last bit, almost breaking.

 

Boromir wondered how strong Kíli was, the grip around his arm was like a steel clasp, stronger than any man’s grasp would be. So Mithrandir had somehow been involved in the events that had led to the death of Kíli’s family? He could not place the events or even begin to guess how and where, but the Grey Pilgrim often seemed embroiled in events that no one quite understood and Boromir recalled his own father’s words about Mithrandir’s schemes.

 

“It is done,” Ivordaer said softly, bandaging the cleaned wound before he handed a stonework vial to Kíli. “Drink this, it will dull the pain and allow you to move about until we can reach Rivendell. But you need rest soon, you both were very lucky as it was. And I want the both of you at the healing springs of the valley when we get there.”

 

TRB

 

The Elven horses were tall, nearly taller than the horses of Rohan. The troop had had no spare horses, so two of their warriors shared to free up two horses. Boromir cast a wondering glance at Kíli; he knew the Dwarf knew how to ride but these horses were too tall for him. Even if he could mount, and many children of the same height could already do that, would he be able to control the beast?

 

The Dwarf must have sensed his gaze. “You’d wonder what skills you learn living among Men,” he said, before mounting the horse quickly and with a skill that betrayed some practice.

 

“You seem to have wandered among my people a lot,” Boromir observed as they started their ride into the night.

 

“Aye,” Kíli confirmed, “though I never saw the White City itself. The one time I came close, I was met by a message from a dear friend, asking me to return north.”

 

“Do you have any idea what would bring that many Orcs, not speaking of the Nine, on one Halfling’s trail?” Boromir asked. He had noticed Elrohir’s inference that it was something connected with the Dwarves’ quest decades ago during their talks earlier and it still made him wonder. It was a story he wanted to know in full – thirteen brave setting out to restore a kingdom and them succeeding made for a good tale. But with the fragments Kíli had mentioned so far, it seemed hard to guess what the Enemy might want. Boromir had been thinking on that ever since they had encountered the Nazgûl on Weathertop – and the only thing he could come up with was that the Enemy was recruiting troops, the Orcs of this land seemed to be a force to be reconed with. But how did a Halfling tie into the events. Except… except if the Enemy knew something Boromir did not, something that harkened back to the poem and whatever Isildur’s Bane might prove to be.

 

Elrohir raised his hands in a gesture of not knowing. “I know not. It seems strange that the Enemy would hunt a Halfling. And yet, Mithrandir rarely pays attention to something or someone of no significance, whether others may see their value or not.”

 

There was no doubt in Boromir’s mind that the Elf was sincere. Maybe it was because Elrohir was another warrior that Boromir was able to trust him more easily, but he could not detect any hint of secrecy on the Elf. Even as his open trust in Mithrandir was maybe not a topic to bring up now. Despite this, he saw a very thoughtful expression on Kíli’s face. “Kíli?”

 

“A thought only… and none that I would dare to speak out loud in any place such as this,” the Dwarf replied, his eyes staring far off, his hand closed around the reins of the horse as his eyes sought the reaches of the falling night.

 

“So it _is_ truly something from your quest!” Elrohir said, amazed. “Something that neither of you ever mentioned – or we all overlooked.”

 

“Overlooked.” Kíli rose in the stirrups, throwing his head back. In spite that it must hurt him it seemed to Boromir like he wanted to embrace the nightly wind, the ride along the wild road. For a moment it allowed a glimpse at a wild, almost untamed side in his companion. “And I am not sure of it, either. Let us not speak of it here. Let us not speak of it at all – a spellsmith’s guess might prove as wrong as any soothsayer’s guess.”

 

“Only that your craft has the keener eye for artifacts – and you saw Smaug’s hoard with your own eyes.” Elrohir let the topic go, seeing the Dwarf would not say more. But it made him ponder. Dwarven spellsmiths were nearly as good and as rare as were the great Elven smiths of old. And, like their Elven counterparts, they remembered the lore of all the great and terrible artifacts forged throughout the history of Middle-earth. What had that Dragon possessed?

 

Night was fully upon them when they reached the Bruinen Ford, where the waters were running high, a pale moon mirrored in the rushing flood. Elrohir gestured them to keep close behind him as they rode through the ford. The water seemed to part for them, allowing them passage. Behind the ford, they found a path that led down into the hidden valley. The silver light bathed the whole valley, making the Elven houses and towers shimmer coldly before the darkness. They crossed another bridge spanning a chasm and soon stood inside a wide courtyard between the graceful elven buildings. The riders began to dismount, and a few elves came hurrying to greet them.

 

Boromir and Kíli dismounted also. Both were tired from the long ride, but it was a relief to finally be safe.

 

“They valley of Imladris,” Kíli said with a small smile, looking about. The horses were already being led away by some of the Elven warriors. “I hope you find what you sought here.”

 

A light chill, like the night wind, touched Boromir, who realized this was goodbye. Kíli had done as promised and led him to the hidden kingdom of the Elves. Losing his company now brought back the loneliness of the long journey. During the last days, he had grown accustomed to the Dwarf’s stalwart company. He had not felt that comfortable with a companion since his last foray into Ithilien with Faramir. “You have my thanks for your aid, Kíli son of Dari,” he said, falling back upon a formal style of speaking that he hadn’t used since before he left Gondor. “If your wanderings ever take you back to my people, you will be very welcome there.”

 

Kíli bowed slightly, politely acknowledging the thanks. Then he took his axe from his back and handed it to Boromir. “A long time ago, my king gave me this to defend the Mountain home; it brought me through a terrible battle and saved my life more than once. They say that luck itself was forged into Truefire,” he said. “I do not have a kingdom to fight for anymore – but you do. And with the Shadow rising, your land will soon be under the tides of war. May it keep your safe in a thousand battles.”

 

Surprised and touched, Boromir took the axe. He knew it to be a formidable weapon. In turn, he drew the long dagger he wore alongside his sword. “Keep this, to remember a friend by.” When Kíli had spoken of his king and defending the Mountain home, there had been a wealth of sadness in his eyes for a moment. Whatever had happened to him after his people reclaimed their homeland, it had to be a sad story. All the more Boromir would treasure this weapon and its proud history. Returning the gift in form of the dagger would seal a vow of friendship between them, and maybe their path together did not yet have to end. “And… you may no longer have a kingdom to fight for, but there are places that would welcome a warrior like you.”

 

Kíli understood the invitation and what it meant. He accepted the dagger with a smile. “Until we meet again, Boromir of Gondor.”

 

TRB

****

Most guests of Elrond’s house only knew the very heart of the valley, the court and very core of the small Elven city. Yet, Rivendell was indeed a kingdom unto itself, and far bigger than was easily visible. On the side opposite of the mighty waterfalls, nestled in the shadow of the mountains, lay what was known as the Trader’s Court. No kingdom, no matter how small or large, could thrive without trade. Rivendell in particular only permitted those proven trustworthy to come into the valley for trade, and as such most of them came from the other Elven kingdoms. Around the Trader’s Court lay the artisan’s halls, the workshops of Elven craftspeople, and the forges. Having been invited by Elrohir to stay for at least a while, Kíli had found his way there. His weapons and armor were in dire need of repairs, and Aelin, the Elven swordsmith, had known Kíli for years: they had worked together more than once and the Dwarf knew he would have a chance to make repairs at the forge. As such, Aelin proved not the least bit surprised by Kíli’s appearance. “I heard your name earlier this very day and then the name of Bolg mentioned in the same sentence,” he observed, inviting Kíli with a gesture to join him in the workshop.

 

Aelin was tall, even for an elf, and had the dark hair of his Noldor kin, he was one of those rare Elves who was completely at ease between the smelting pits and the anvil, though to Kíli it always seemed that his light built did not lend itself to smithing. He also knew he was wrong, however elves accomplished such heavy work while still being their willowy fragile selves. When Aelin worked, he tied his long mane back, exposing a dark scar at his throat that looked like a shaded lash mark. Kíli had never pressed for the story of the scar – he bore enough scars to know when not to talk about such things – but he wondered if it had been made by a burning whip of sorts.

 

“Bolg is dead – he had the undeserved honor to fall from the hand of Boromir of Gondor.” Kíli began an examination of his gear. The chainmail shirt had lost many rings due to arrows and barely sustained hits; it would need hours of work to repair each of the rifts. Winterflame, the dragonsword, had escaped most of the damage – it needed naught but sharpening. “He died as dimwitted as ever, though, calling me Kíli unda Thorin.”

 

The Elven smith laughed, his eyes dark as the sky on a cold winter evening, sparkling with mirth. “Tell me, Kíli – since when do you expect Orcs to have a proper understanding of ancestry? They are lucky when they know their own breeding pits.” He cast a glance at the torn chainmail. “Throw that into the melting pit and start anew – it’s already been repaired several times too many. I still have the one that trader wanted to order for Darlin, I can have it adjusted for you in less than a day.”

 

“Aelin… I could not accept that.” Kíli shook his head. “What Zirgan ordered originally for Darlin was your best work – you must have spent weeks on that one.” He knew not why the deal had been called off but Zirgan was not welcome to trade here anymore: that much he had heard from Brea.

 

Aelin arched an eyebrow at the words. “I need your help with some weapons that Lord Elrond wishes done quickly and I do not have a skilled apprentice at hand.” He tilted his head slightly. “Or someone who still knows the secret of steel and stone.”

 

They had worked together before, as there were very few true spellsmiths left in the world. The skill to create magical things, to work spells and runes into one’s forging, had never been one that many possessed. But with the waning years, it thinned out, and there were fewer and fewer of them among all the races. Both their families looked back on a long tradition in the craft and thus their friendship had sprung even over the shadows history cast on both of their races.

 

“Steel and stone?” Kíli asked. It did not take more for him to get the reference to a blade that would cut through steel and stone – the origins of the secret how to make such a blade were legend. Some said it was a secret Durin himself learned from his mentor, Mahal; others said it took a journey to a lonely land to learn it. Kíli knew both were true. “Then Lord Elrond must need a very special blade indeed… not surprising with the Nine knocking on his doorstep.”

 

“I have often wondered how the secret of steel and stone stayed with your family,” Aelin observed as they prepared the work he had spoken off, having worked together often before, they were attuned to each other’s way of setting things, falling into step with practiced ease.

 

“Most of it is passed on from father to son, or from uncle to nephew, as in my case,” Kíli said, “but there are some things that can’t be taught easily, and that might have been lost when King Thrór fell by the gates of Moria. To seek the missing you need to wander far into the ancient land of Hollin, crossing the Grey flood where it sings under the Rock-of-Swans and onward until you see the Lake of Whispering Dreams to your left and the Mountain of A Thousand Tears ahead of you, in a land so lost and lonely you will wish to never have set foot there.”

 

Having set out the pieces they had lit the fire and begun the true work, the first steps of welding the steel for the blade together came easy to both of them, their hammers ringing out in a steady rhythm.

 

“When you dare to wander on, you have to cross a deep chasm inhabited by the most unfriendly spiders I have ever met, and beyond… beyond you will find a forest of dead trees.” Kíli’s eyes shone in the light of the fire as he spoke.. “There is no path through the forest, and sleeping under the trees will be your last night in this world. But if you find your way through the forest, it will lead you to the shores of a shadowed lake, on the other shore you will see the ruins of a beautiful city rise above the dark waters.”

 

The flames of the fire turned silvery pale at Aelin’s command, this spell-flame something only an Elf could call on, and one who had taught by a master from the Elder Days. “I can imagine the place you speak off, for I have seen this city in days long gone, and I am all the more amazed you dared to tread those grounds.”

 

“The Wanderer does not fear the road,” Kíli replied. “Inside the city you have to find the old caverns, where the ancient spell-forge lies, maybe the last of all the great spell-forges in this world. And there you will find him – an ancient arcane smith, chained to the anvil by a chain of Mithril – a chain that can only be cut by one blade alone. If you wish to learn his secrets you have to earn them and serve as his apprentice for a full seven years.”

 

Aelin had heard parts of the story before, but without many of the smaller details. He could only guess that there had been pieces of the secrets that Kíli had not learned by the time his uncle had perished. How much destruction had befallen Durin’s House in the last generations? More than they probably were willing to show. Neither of the younger line even showed the signs of being a spell-smith any more. In that way Kíli might be the last of his kind. Pushing aside the morbid thoughts, Aelin refocused on the work they were performing.

 

TRB

 

The morning sun was high up in the skies when they were finished, the two swords resting on the anvil. Kíli returned from the adjacent room where he had washed away the soot and grime of the work. Neither smith spoke of the straining events of the forging; it was something shared in silence between those who had participated in the work. Neither would discuss it nor mention it again.

 

Heavy footsteps outside on the white flagstones interrupted their cleaning up after the work. “Aye, this seems to be the forge,” a voice grumbled. There was little doubt a Dwarf was speaking. In fact, three approached: Kíli could clearly distinguish between their sets of steps outside. “Master Smith, our axes have grown blunt and dented by fighting our way across these mountains, and we would see them repaired,” one of them said. They were three of varying ages, one with white hair and beard, the second a redhead, and the third with a dark chestnut beard and hair.

 

Kíli tensed slightly, recognizing Glóin, Gimli and Ari, all three of them from the Kingdom of Erebor and loyal subjects to King Dáin. Gloin and Gimli he had known well in times past, Ari was only of fleeting acquaintance but still enough to seek a distance. He retreated a few steps backwards, towards the shadows of the forge.

 

“Bah – what does an Elf know of a Dwarf’s axe?” Gimli snorted loudly. “We best do our own work.”

 

“And maybe you’d do well with more politeness.” Kíli tried to keep his voice steady; he had recognized them right away and knew enough of their temper to want to forestall a full clash between them and Aelin, well aware of the Noldor’s prideful streak. A part of him also was angered that Gimli would easily dismiss another spell-smith’s skill without knowing him further.

 

The Dwarves turned towards him, their eyes widening, Gloin even took a step back while Ari stood like frozen. “Kíli.” The youngest pushed past the others. “Well met indeed.”

 

Kíli’s heart sank, as he felt a familiar tense pressure rise inside him. A long time ago Gimli had been a childhood friend, in a time before death, intrigue and politics had separated their paths forever.  He inclined his head in greeting but did not bow. “Well met, Gimli son of Glóin. Glóin, it is good to see you too. I assume King Dáin sent you here?”

 

The older Dwarf looked a little flustered at Kíli. They had not met since the day Kíli had left Erebor, and while Kíli had been clear about each of their companions being free to choose and stay, Gloin had ultimately been the only one to choose to swear to Dáin. “He did indeed; he wants to hear what these Elves have to say. I doubt there’s much importance in it. They tried to feed us greens already. What brings you here, if I may ask?”

 

“Helping a friend, mostly.” Kíli could read Gloin’s unease all over his demeanor, he was not happy about this meeting at all. Though why, Kíli was not certain about. He bore Gloin no ill will, he had not wished for any of his former companions to choose the hardship of the second exile, though most had anyway and had done his best to keep the scorn of the others, especially Dwalin’s and Bofur’s at bay. “Has your family been well?” he asked, trying to ease the situation. It must feel strange for Gloin to meet him again, and who knew what twists and tangles of the politics of Dáin’s court made this harder on him?

 

“It would be of no concern to you.” Gloin cast him a glare before he turned and marched out of the forge, followed by Ari. Gimli lingered still, his eyes on the ground before he looked up again. He had not seen Kíli since they both had been Dwarflings in the Ered Luin. Once Kíli and his brother had been taken by their uncle on his journeys, their visits had been sporadic, and Gimli had been deeply disappointed he was not permitted to join them on the quest for Erebor. “Please forgive him,” he grumbled. “The rift you caused has hurt many.”

 

“The rift _I_ caused?” Kíli asked, trying very hard to keep his voice under control. What was Gimli thinking? All Kíli had wanted was to live in peace at Cardemir – it had been Dáin’s pressure on trade and relations that had made it impossible for him to stay at any dwarven settlement for a longer time. Not if he did not want them to suffer from the problems that arose. “You would do well to remember it was not my choice, Gimli,” he added, trying very hard to rein in his temper. He had not wanted any of this – neither Dáin’s treachery nor the situation that had arisen with the second exile. Though he bore not anger towards those choosing Dáin for a King, he bore anger towards the pressure they had put on Kíli’s people in Eriador. “and you would do well to remember that it was your King who began to hound me with his jealousies.”

 

Gimli took a step back, his shoulders tensing. “So it is true – you still see yourself as your Uncle’s heir,” he grumbled, “though your father’s blood certainly was not born for such heights.”

 

The words cut right through Kíli’s defenses and touched upon a tender point. His father – a dwarrow fallen in battle so long ago that he could barely remember anything about him, except a few precious details, was not something he bore scorn on. “You are forgetting your place, son of Gloin,” he said coldly, subconsciously taking to a stance he had seen a thousand times in his Uncle. “I am Prince of Durin’s House and while you may be distant kin to me, you are neither friend nor confidante.”

 

Before Gimli could react, Aelin returned and gestured towards the wide open way out through which the light of the late autumn sun was clearly visible and wind whirling the dry leaves through the air. “You were not invited here,” he said coolly, “and you best take your leave.”

 

For a moment Gimli stood like struck by thunder, before he turned and stomped out of the forge, anger clearly written over his swift march from the forge.

 

“That was unnecessary,” Kíli observed, towards Aelin as his eyes followed Gimli’s receeding figure. “he would have left, anyway, to follow his father.” His eyes still followed Gimli’s receding figure. “And I had the situation still in hand.”

 

“He does not know where his loyalties lie and there’s no worse vice than that,” Aelin said as they both set to continue their work. “Either they are with Dáin and would complain about your very presence here to Lord Elrond, or you are their Prince still, which means they live on the wrong side of the mountains.”

 

TRB

 

Boromir still felt a little awkward when he entered the wide balcony where the council was to be held. Rivendell had proven to be a very strange place in which his injuries had recovered abnormally fast during the last two days, especially after the visit at the healing springs Ivordaer had insisted on. At first he had not felt so ill at ease, but this had been while Kíli had accompanied him. Somehow, the company of the Dwarven warrior had made things easier. But Kíli had departed the moment he knew Boromir safe among Elrond’s guests and vanished to wherever the Trader’s Court was on the outskirts of the valley. Indeed, Boromir had been very grateful for Elrohir’s occasional company. The Elf was someone he found easy to talk to and had explained more than a bit of the comings and goings surrounding this council.

 

Now, as Boromir entered the high aisle that was reserved for the council, he spotted Elrohir standing in the back, a few steps left of his royal father. He looked around and studied the whole group of Elves, Men and Dwarves as they assembled up here. There were a number of Elves present, representing their different kingdoms: the Grey Havens, Mirkwood, and Rivendell. Boromir noticed the overt absence of any Lothlorien envoys, as no Elf was introduced as such, which was a distinct difference after the envoys of the other two kingdoms had been named, but he guessed that even Elves making haste might not have made that long journey in time. Or perhaps there was an envoy of them present, just not openly announced. The envoy of the Grey Havens seemed to be well known to the court, if the way he was greeted by Lord Elrond was any indication. The Mirkwood Elf appeared to be more of a stranger in Rivendell, though. Boromir knew very little of the woodland realm, except the grim and not exactly polite jokes Elrohir and Kíli had shared at their expense. He wished Faramir was with him – he could have told him something about any one of these Elves and their esteemed ancestors.

 

A Dwarven delegation was here too, recently arrived from Erebor, the Kingdom under the Lonely Mountain. After hearing Kíli speak of the Mountain home so often, Boromir had expected them to be much like his Dwarven companion had been, and was all the more surprised that they were much more of what any Man would expect a Dwarf to be: heavy armored, long bearded and bowing with their eternal ‘at your service’ before sitting down. They were introduced as Gloin son of Groin, Gimli son of Gloin, and Arí son of Cardin. The only name that sounded familiar was Gloin; Kíli had mentioned him in his story about the trolls. So he had been one of the thirteen brave.

 

Frodo looked ill at ease as he came in and sat down silently beside the Wizard. He had recovered from being stabbed by a Morgul blade, an impressive feat even with Elven healing involved. Boromir would have been inclined to see the young Halfling as weak and scarcely more than a child, but knowing what he had gone through and survived changed Boromir’s perception quite a bit. And there had been the story about Frodo’s uncle who had joined thirteen Dwarves on their great quest. There had to be more to these little people than appearances might show.

 

Boromir found his gaze drawn to the Man sitting on the other side of the balcony. Thorongil, or rather, Aragorn son of Arathron, leader of what remained of the Men of Arnor. After what he had seen of Arnor’s remains, Boromir’s opinion on them was undecided. He still despised that they had given up on their land so utterly, but after seeing what they had to contend with, he would admit that their fate was harder than most knew.

 

Hours passed listening to the story of the Ring and how it was found. Boromir wished the Elves would be a bit less verbose in their relating of events. What got his attention was Lord Elrond’s description of the last battle against Sauron when the Ring was originally lost. But he frowned when Elrond suggested the outright destruction of this weapon. Why destroy something so useful and so powerful when it already was in their hands? It was the first time Boromir spoke up at the council; he could immediately tell that his words were not well received. They acted out of fear, and fearful people rarely had the will and courage to do what was necessary. Did they not see that this was the way, the very means to destroy Sauron once and for all? They may have fought the Enemy in the past but they had not lived under the Shadow for decades, they had no idea what battle Gondor had waged for two generations. His words were not heard – they fell on deaf ears. With great effort, Boromir reined in his temper and sat down to listen again. But when Elrond said that the Ring had to be brought to the Cracks of Doom at Orodruin he could no longer be silent.

 

“One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its Black Gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust; the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly.” He looked at them, hoping they would hear him. They had no clue what they were planning here. Had they ever dared to cross the borders of the Black Land? Had they ever been in the deeps of their strongholds? Had they ever seen the cruel shadow of Minas Morgul as it loomed above the pass roads? Boromir had, and while he had braved those forays into enemy territory for many years now, he knew the price Gondor paid each time they dared to cross into the Mountains of Shadow.

 

“Did you not hear what Lord Elrond said? The Ring must be destroyed!” one of the Elves exclaimed – Boromir failed to notice which of them.

 

“Boromir’s words are not without wisdom,” Thorongil said, gesturing the Mirkwood Elf to sit down again. “Mordor’s borders were always dangerous, and we do not know what lurks there now that the Enemy is gathering his armies. And we will need the aid of those familiar with his defenses.”

 

It seemed an irony that it was Thorongil who spoke sense here. Their eyes met and Boromir could see the Man understood – he knew what Mordor meant. His respect for the Ranger grew. If only they would see how desperate their plan was!

 

TRB  
  
It was hours later before a decision was reached. Boromir had to admire the small Halfling who stood up to take the burden most Men, Elves and Dwarves would not dare to touch. Frodo seemed so small and fragile to Boromir; it was cruel to burden him with the fate of the world – no matter how resilient and strong his kind had proven in the past. No one should have to carry a burden like this, least of all someone so small. How was he to survive such a journey alone? He would need some good fighters to carve a path for him, someone to protect him from the foul creatures lurking in the wilderness. “I will go with you.” Seeing all eyes moving towards him, Boromir realized that he volunteered the same moment as Thorongil had.

 

Again their eyes met, and Thorongil nodded curtly. “It would be good to have you with us.”

 

Boromir could not bring himself to like Thorongil, but the fact that the Ranger had volunteered for the task at once spoke of courage, and Boromir like it or not he’d admit that whatever else Isildur’s heir may be, he was brave.

 

He was not much astounded that Gimli the Dwarf offered to accompany them. From the impression Boromir had when he had met the Dwarf the day prior to this council and from what he had seen of his reactions here, he was a strong fighter and, pigheaded as he might be, would make a loyal companion. If Kíli was an example to judge Dwarves by, Gimli would prove an excellent addition to the Company. When the Wood-elf volunteered, Boromir wondered how to judge that. There were other Elven warriors present, but as none of them felt they had to correct this decision, he decided to trust that the Elf would prove a good addition as well.

 

The whirlwind of three more Hobbits – one Sam, and the other two the younger ones – interrupted the discussion, and Elrond announced them the Nine Walkers. Boromir’s glance wandered to the three Hobbits beside Frodo. They seemed so young, so eager and so completely innocent. “That makes four to protect,” he said, mostly to himself. From the corner of his eye he caught Thorongil’s glance and for the first time they knew themselves to be in complete agreement.

 

TRB

 

The fire at the forge was slowly burning down, but the stones still radiated heat into the cool autumn night. When Kíli heard soft steps approach, he thought for a moment that Aelin was returning early from court, but then a different voice, reedier than last he heard it, spoke up.

 

“That reminds me of the fire Bifur made from a chair and a harp – I did never dare to ask what else he used.” A small, greying figure stood in the entrance of the forge.

 

“Bilbo!” Kíli put aside the fine tongs he had been using to do repairs on a pair of chain gauntlets and rushed over, greeting the Hobbit with a hug.

 

“Some friend you are,” Bilbo chastised him. “Helps to save my nephew but never manages to visit once!” He sniffed indignantly and very ostensibly shook his head at such a display of bad manners.

 

“I thought you’d have your hands full with your nephew and three more Hobbits in tow,” Kíli replied, making room so Bilbo could sit down on the three legged stool by the workbench. His friend had changed a lot since they last saw, Bilbo had aged, the old but still spry Hobbit was now bowed with the years he had lived. His hair had become white as the snows and was thin, he too was thin, the well-fed carefree Hobbit of times past was gone forever. “I had certainly not expected you to come here.”

 

Bilbo watched Kíli sit down on the ground, back to the wall. In the familiar surroundings of the old forge, the Dwarven warrior was more relaxed than usual. He felt at home here, letting his guard down. “I needed some fresh air,” Bilbo said, “and I wanted to see an old friend. Tell me of your travels.”

 

Thus every conversation between them had begun, whenever Kíli’s journeys had brought him to the Shire. It harkened back to the many times Kíli had come through Bag-End, to nights they had talked and stories of the world Kíli had told a still curious Hobbit. It called up a warm spot inside him, a feeling of welcome and almost-something-like-home, he had always associated with his friend’s home in the Shire. Smiling, Kíli began to tell of his journeys, of all that had happened prior to his arrival in Rivendell. He knew Bilbo loved a good story. But this time Bilbo seemed distracted, his eyes going past Kíli towards the door, his hands kneading into each other most of the time, and his head bowed deeper and deeper the more Kíli mentioned of the hunt. Eventually, Kíli broke off telling the story, rose, and walked over to him. “Bilbo… what is it? Something is haunting you this night.”

 

The old Hobbit reached up to clasp Kíli’s shoulder with one hand. “I left Frodo a terrible burden… a terrible legacy, Kíli,” he said softly. “And now… he will have travel far, into the Dark Land itself, to set it right. I… I should have seen, should have trusted my friends…”

 

Gently, Kíli hugged his old friend, pained to see him so distraught. “Bilbo, you did what you believed right. Sometimes… even the best intentions lead to dark results.” He pulled back, looking at him. “Is there anything I can do to help? Aid Frodo?”

 

Bilbo shook his head, not as an answer to the question but at Kíli's very reaction to it. “You are so much like your family, Kíli – always rushing into danger to protect your friends, never asking how dangerous it is. You don’t even ask what the task is…”

 

“There is something the Dark Lord would want from you,” Kíli said, “and as you never undertook big travels after meeting us, it must have happened during our journey. It certainly wasn’t something from Erebor’s treasures and I doubt the troll hoard held anything of such significance. That leaves only the one occasion you were separated from us for a longer time: your adventure under the Misty Mountains.” Kíli discounted the time in Thranduil’s palace. If Thranduil had anything that dangerous, some Elves with more sense would hopefully have confiscated it long ago. Bilbo had told them of his encounter with Gollum and later during the spider fight in Mirkwood had revealed his means of becoming invisible. “If one takes into account the great lore of the artifacts… that leaves one frightening possibility.”

 

Bilbo tensed, his shoulders stiffening, then suddenly he relaxed, bending forward and chuckled in wry amusement. “Why am I trying to slip something like that past a spell-smith – one of your line especially? Your House held the first of the Seven, after all. I… I am just glad it was lost before you were old enough to feel its taint.”

 

Kíli ducked his head; he had not wanted to make Bilbo uncomfortable. “Is there anything I can do to help Frodo?” he asked again. “Whatever is needed… just tell me.”

 

“No, Kíli. I could not ask something like that of you,” the old Hobbit said warmly.

 

“Of course you could. We are friends,” Kíli said meeting his friends eyes, daring him to contradict him again, “and friends help each other. Besides, I owe you my life. Twice. Once in the dungeons of Mirkwood  and once at the Battle of Five Armies. Had you not found me there, I would be dead.” He had been close to bleeding out. Without Bilbo, he’d have died. “And… I never really thanked you for that, did I?”

 

“You all but wished you had died with them, Kíli.” Bilbo’s eyes went past him, staring into the dark, into the past, to the shadows. A deep sadness crept into his voice when he spoke of the events of long ago, of the day of dying. “You had been wounded more than in body. Your very soul had been scarred.” He looked up at Kíli, his memories of the silent, broken dwarf that had left Erebor with them still vivid. “And I was glad when I saw that spark of life come back to your eyes on that day in Beorn’s house. Whatever I did on the field that day, it was too little and too late.”

 

Kíli did not reply at once. He well remembered the winter day at Beorn’s home, the day that had broken him out of the dark, cold place his heart had become after Fili died. Up to that day, Kíli would have not cared whether or not he woke up from going to sleep, for his heart had been dead and he simply wished he had been buried alongside his brother and uncle. But that day… he so well recalled it, maybe because it had taught him how selfish his grief had been. He had come upon Dwalin down by the creek sleeping under the ice, the mighty warrior broken down in his own grief for his friend and king, for Fili, his former student… telling the frozen waves of his fear that Kíli soon might follow…  Kíli had felt hurt, touched, and deeply ashamed that he had left a friend alone in pain and grief. He had gone to Dwalin and embraced him, silently vowing he’d live, if not for himself, for others who still cared whether or not he survived.

 

Jerking back from the memory, Kíli gently nudged Bilbo to look at him. “You still saved my life, even if it took me a long time to appreciate my survival,” he said warmly, “and I have been glad that you were there, when I needed you most.”

 

TRB

 

The morning was cold: the leaves were already drifting off the trees and the chill of the coming winter clung to the morning mists. Elrohir knew the snows would be upon them all too soon. He had sent one of his men to find Kíli but the messenger had returned without an answer and thus Elrohir made his way down to the forges himself. Although Aelin would never admit being friends with a Dwarf, both were arcane smiths like there were few left in the world, and when they worked, they together often forgot the world outside their forge. He counted himself lucky to not disturb them in the middle of some heavy work, but with repairs that looked mostly like work Elrohir’s own men would have dropped off there.

 

Kíli excused himself from the sharpening wheel and came outside. “I apologize for not following your messenger, but he said it could wait.”

 

“Did he?” Elrohir could sense some light Elven disapproval in the words the messenger had chosen. The messenger would have assumed that anything Elrohir might want to tell the Dwarf was unimportant. He shrugged, it could not be helped. Like others the messenger had made the mistake of assuming Kíli to be an unimportant wanderer, a homeless dwarf, a mask easily fooling many who did not know Kíli well. “We may as well talk now.”

 

Following Elrohir away from the forge and on one of the lonelier paths of Rivendell, Kíli could tell the Elven Prince was not in the mood for idle chatter, which meant some trouble or mischief was afoot. Most likely it had to do with Orc caves or former Dwarven mines. Elves were great warriors but they were lousy at finding their way below ground. “Someone was captured, I take it? How many and where? With Bolg dead, Gundabad will be up in arms.”

 

“I wish this was just me wanting your help poking around in some Orc den,” Elrohir replied, vividly recalling how he had first met Kíli and his brother many decades ago in the depths of Mount Gundabadhow often Kíli had aided them in chasing the Orcs out of their dens all around the pass road, “but what I need to ask of you – what my father wishes to ask of you – is more dangerous than that.”

 

They walked up the slopes slowly, stopping at a bend where the view over the valley was magnificent. “Danger is everywhere these days, whether we seek it or not.” Kíli wondered what may have happened. Elves hated asking help from strangers, and he usually tried to not make them ask by simply offering his services. “I’ll do what I can.”

 

“The Halflings you helped save will soon leave Rivendell,” Elrohir said. “Theirs is a difficult journey, of a nature that I may not share with you. My father has sent scouts ahead of them to aid and find safe paths for them. But… one part of their journey remains largely uncovered.” His eyes went beyond the tree line to the white-capped chain of mountains they could see.

 

“The Mountain passage.” Kíli gazed at the white peaks. “The paths will not be safe, the small paths will be worse, the gap of Rohan is a forty days’ march away, and Moria… is under shadow.” He shivered; merely speaking _Moria_ called up dreadful memories in him, of a friend and a painful goodbye, but also of the darkest journey of his life. “There are no safe passages left, Elrohir. All are dangerous, and with winter setting in, most of them will be closed soon enough.”

 

“Yes, but Dwarves cross the mountains even in the worst weather – you know ways through these mountains no one else does. And… if needed, it would be good to have someone scout ahead or lend aid when needed.” They continued on the path that led further up, under the whispering asp trees the Elves loved so well. Now the slender trees stood barren and bare before the cold autumn winds.

 

“You have a number of Rangers who do, too, and some Elves that can’t keep their noses out of the deepest Orc dens,” Kíli pointed out. He had often wandered during the cold times and did not fear to travel in winter, but he still had to ask. “Why me?”

 

Now the Elven Prince smiled an eerily knowing expression in his eyes. “Because you are already gone, Kíli son of Dari. Your feet may trudge this path but your heart is by now a thousand leagues south.” Grey eyes surveyed the Dwarf closely. “Your friend Boromir is going with Frodo.”

 

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Kíli studied the Elf quizzically. “And you disapprove of that friendship?”

 

“Nay. He is a friend your House would choose – loyal, dedicated, prideful and stubborn. I am not surprised you find him worthy of friendship. But I know you, Kíli – like I knew some of your line. You do not just live – you cannot sit in a forge and go on with your life.” He pointed at the road yonder whence the Dwarven Company had left Rivendell nearly eighty years ago. “You need a cause, something to fight for. Your uncle could not have sat idly; he fought for his people until the day he died.”

 

Elrohir held the Dwarf’s gaze evenly; unfazed by the stare he received. “You are the same, only that this course is barred for you. You cannot fight for your people any more; there is no place for you left. Even a prolonged stay of yours in Cardemir, in the Ered Luin, would cause strife among your kind.” He could see he had touched a very sensitive point: even as Kíli’s expression hardly changed, it closed, becoming a façade. “But you fight well for your friends… and one of them fights for a great cause, the greatest that may be left in Middle-earth. I know you, Kíli. In your heart you are already on that journey south to assist him, be it on the field of battle or with your skills in crafting weapons. Deny it!”

 

Kíli exhaled slowly. The Elf had laid bare his entire situation in his short speech. All of what he said was true. “And as I am planning to go South anyway, I may as well be of use and scout ahead for your chosen ones?” He gave a curt nod. “You are right: it makes sense. And if I can help Frodo in any way, I will.”


	7. A measure of trust

** Chapter 6: A measure of trust **

****

Boromir’s arrow struck down another rabbit. They were not exactly fat animals but they’d do. The Company was on their sixth day of crossing Hollin. The rugged hills were dominated by grass and grey rocks, with groups of barren Hollin trees and dry juniper bushes strewn in between. The group was conserving their provisions by living off the land as much as possible, which was working out fairly well, as they had several experienced hunters among their ranks. With both rabbits slung over his shoulder. Boromir fell into a sharp pace and caught up to where Sam was leading the pony. It was a habit of the hunters to deliver all their catches to the stout Halfling, who was the cook of the camp; he would tell them if there was already enough there to provide for the day, or if they were still lacking the quantity the group would need.

 

The Hobbit took both animals to examine. “They look good, Boromir. Not so much like that dreadful old hare Gimli caught yesterday,” he stated, putting them on the pony where already several more were tied to the packs.

 

Frodo, walking by Sam’s side, laughed his serious expression melting away for the moment, the simple fun about food bringing the much younger looking Hobbit back to the foreground. “Bilbo always said Dwarven cooking was somewhat unpalatable. Except if Bombur did the cooking.”

 

“Bombur was one of the thirteen brave, was he?” Boromir asked, falling into step beside them. During the journey to Rivendell, Kíli had spoken of these events, and he was still amazed at the daring venture of thirteen fighters who had gone to reclaim a Kingdom from nothing less than a Dragon. He wished he had the chance to hear the full tale.

 

“I all but forgot that you came to Rivendell with Kíli,” Frodo replied. “Bombur too was part of Thorin Oakenshield’s company, along with his brother Bofur and cousin Bifur. Gimli’s father was there too – Gloin.”

 

“Bombur... He isn’t that fat Dwarven merchant in Bree, is he?” Sam’s eyebrows furrowed at the mention of the familiar name. “Master Bilbo introduced him to my old Gaffer, amongst others – always paid right good prices for our produce, he did. He shared a recipe for stuffed partridge that wasn’t half bad cooking, if you get my meaning.”

 

“It seems a number of them did not stay at the Mountain when it was retaken?” Boromir recalled Bofur’s reaction when he was asked about that. The Dwarf had nearly physically retreated from him when asked about this topic and quickly brought the evening to an end. Still, Boromir had noticed the quick exchange of glances between the old miner and Kíli, and Kíli’s resigned shrug, even though what wordless message had been conveyed between them, Boromir had been left with the feeling that it was an uneasy topic to say the least. And the grim words Kíli had shared with him on his brother’s fate in the ensuing battle, warned him to carelessly poke at this story at all.

 

Frodo sighed. “Bilbo rarely spoke of that – of all that happened in the Battle of Five Armies. He lost friends there. He only said that with the King under the Mountain dead, there was some dispute about succession among the Dwarves and that a number of Thorin’s companions did not like the outcome and chose not to stay at Erebor. Dwalin and Kíli accompanied Bilbo on his journey home.” A small smile now lit up Frodo’s face. “Dwalin’s encounter with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins ruined Bilbo’s reputation forever, and the old rascal so loved it.”

 

Suddenly, something shook the bushes off to their side. Boromir at once moved between the Hobbits and whatever was there, axe poised, ready to strike.

 

The bushes shook again – branches cracked and broke as a cursing Gimli freed himself of the uncooperative undergrowth. He shook off the branches and tossed another rabbit at Sam that the Hobbit nearly dropped, having not expected the animal to sail through the air at him. “There ya go, laddie, something to cook stew with tonight.”

 

Relieved, Boromir lowered the weapon but didn’t sling it into the sheath onto his back. When not hunting, it was easier to keep it at hand like the Dwarf sometimes had.  “Gimli, you make enough of a racket for a dozen Orcs!”

 

The Dwarf snorted and glared up to the much taller man. “Dwarves don’t make a racket, they walk,” he grumbled, stomping past them. When he brushed past Boromir, though, his eyes caught the glint of the Dwarven weapon. Gimli stopped, scrutinizing the sharp blade he saw glittering in the sunlight, his eyes narrowing and his thick eyebrows forming a brushy line above his brow. “How did you come by that?” he demanded. “It can’t be yours. Where did you get it? Did you steal it? Rob the dead?” The Dwarf’s temper flared and in all but a moment it was as hot as his forge.

 

“I am not answerable to you, Gimli,” Boromir said sharply, his hand closing harder around the hilt of the weapon he was carrying. What was that Dwarf thinking to accuse him of grave robbing? He was aware that the axe was very distinctive: the silver blade’s long, elegant curve looked deceptively weak, so finely wrought it appeared almost delicate, but was anything but. The dark shaft, along with the blade itself, was adorned with intricate engravings that he could not decipher, and he wondered if they were ornamental only or actual writing.

 

Aragorn, who had been walking at the head of the Company, turned around. “Gimli, take point. We can discuss this tonight at camp, not in the middle of the march.”

 

The Dwarf grumbled but moved ahead as he was told. “Dwarves and their treasures.” Legolas shook his head, heading off to scout ahead.

 

They marched until nightfall, when they made camp in a small forest. There was enough dead wood for Gimli to get a fire burning swiftly, although Boromir noticed that he worked differently with the fire than Kíli had, maybe it was his own perception tricking him, but Kíli had seemed close to the fire, almost comforted by its presence and mostly in control of whatever fire he was close to, Gimli was different in that regard. At least he did not believe again to see flames dance on a Dwarf’s hands. Sam took to cooking immediately. Gimli had pointedly kept his distance from Boromir, pacing impatiently between the trees, grumbling unintelligible things into his beard.

 

Aragorn, sitting on a rock to the side of the camp, looked at him. “Gimli, why do you take issue with Boromir’s axe?” he asked. “It is of Dwarven make, but that does not say anything. Cardemir had been trading weapons and armor in the south for decades. I would not be surprised if a good number of their works ended up in Gondor’s armories.”

 

Gimli crossed his arms in front of his chest, and shot a glare towards Boromir before he focused visibly on Aragorn. Still leaning on his axe it appeared to Boromir that the dwarf still felt attacked about whatever issue he had taken with the axe. But when he spoke, he kept his words levelly, as far as this seemed possible with him.  “It isn’t just an axe of any ordinary make, Aragorn,” Gimli explained, again pointing his huge hand towards Boromir. “This one comes from the very treasury of Erebor itself! There are only three others of the same make and none of them have been wielded by anyone outside the House of Durin! One of them was buried with its bearer after he fell in battle, while the other three should be in the hands of Dwarves – one wielded of King Dáin himself. It could not have come into the hands of any Man except through theft.” Craning his neck, his stared challengingly up at Boromir, like he wanted to hear him contradict his words.

 

Aragorn shook his head. “You are too easy to make this accusation, Gimli,” he pointed out, his eyes calmly turning to Boromir, the question easily visible in his glance.

 

“The axe was the gift of a friend,” Boromir said, trying to ignore the angry glares he got from Gimli. If the dwarf disliked the friendship with Kíli, it was nothing that would faze him. “When we said goodbye, we exchanged weapons – he gave me this axe, for luck in battle. His name was Kíli.”

 

“Kíli?” Gimli’s voice became a thunderous shout, when he spoke the name. “I had heard he was skulking around Menfolk lands; but that he should hand over Truefire… he truly fell far.”

 

“They came to Rivendell together, Gimli,” Aragorn said, forestalling any direct answer by Boromir. “And it was a gift amongst comrades, you should not scorn that, no matter your own position in King Dáin’s court.” The Ranger’s words were stern and the stare he gave Gimli made the dwarf take a step back.

 

Gimli heaved a heavy breath, still glaring at Boromir. “I will admit Kíli had a right to Truefire,” he said softly, his voice suddenly sinking low. “It was given to him by his King before the Battle and he kept it after his Uncle… It was his right.” He did not go on, but frowned deeply at Boromir. “I will accept your claim to the weapon, Gondorian – but if you think of taking issue with –,”

 

“I do not take issue with anything, Gimli son of Gloin,” Boromir said directly, staring down at the dwarf. “except a certain Dwarf implying I am a thief, or slandering my friends.”

 

“Bah! What do you know of the one you claim to have befriended?” Gimli turned and walked off ostensibly to gather more firewood.

 

Aragorn let out a slow breath. “His temper makes him speak harsher than he intends,” he said to Boromir, “and had I not seen you and Kíli, I might have asked also. That axe is distinctive.”

 

“It’s a remarkable weapon,” Boromir agreed. “I have seen some fine works but none like this.” Gently his hand traced the black steel hilt of the weapon, it felt almost warm under his hand. “You said something about weapons from Cardemir being traded south, Thorongil. I know those but it’s not Dwarves we buy them from.”

 

“Cardemir is a Dwarven settlement in the Ered Luin, close to the ruins of one of their oldest kingdoms,” Aragorn explained. “Their steelwork is among the best there is these days. I think they make use of some trader in Bree for their contracts.”

 

Boromir sat down by the fire, back against one of the rocks, resting the weapon on his knees, relaxing finally for the first time in days. On the other side of the fire Legolas was conversing with the Hobbits in hushed tones, while Sam was rattling around with the cook pot.  “But why do they not trade them directly?” he asked. “I am aware that Gondor does not have much experience dealing with Dwarves directly, outside the very few who came through our land as wandering workers.” He had noticed his own lack of knowledge regarding the subject several times on the journey, and wished more than ever he had Faramir at his side to explain the intricacies of what he was dealing with. “However, no leader or ruler with any degree of wisdom would easily spurn people who can make such weapons.”

 

Again, Aragorn noticed how much Boromir weighed his opinions in regards to the war Gondor was fighting. Was there anything that he did not see that way? Had the war touched him and his people that deeply already? Aragorn recalled Gondor in the late years of Ecthelion’s rule, and while the threat from Umbar had been looming over the land, he had not encountered such a grim soldier among them until now. “They are being careful,” he replied. “After the tensions about the succession in Erebor, those Dwarves who chose exile over following King Dáin learned to be cautious. I do not know the depth of their trade conflicts, but I know that the exiles tread carefully and keep away from anything connected to throne of the Longbeards.”

 

Thorongil’s words began to clear up some things for Boromir. So Kíli belonged with the exiles. After seeing his uncle die, after seeing a king fall too in that often-mentioned battle, he had found himself in conflict with the successor, Dáin. Boromir could not begin to guess whom Kíli had supported over said Dwarf, but he could well understand what strife regarding an empty throne could mean. His eyes went to the Ranger. At least with him, he knew what he was dealing with. “So Kíli did not support this Dáin for the throne?” he asked.

 

“I dare say no one knows what Kíli son of Dari thought of Dáin or the conflict,” Aragorn replied diplomatically.

 

TRB

 

It was past midnight when they heard the first wolf. The howl echoed in the breeze, mingling with the eternal mourning of the whispering wind, sometimes becoming indistinct, and then returning tenfold. There were more wolves answering the first one: their voices travelled through the night, drawing closer and closer.

 

Boromir, who woke nearly at once, woken by the howls ripping through the air. He jumped to his feet and hurried across the half asleep camp to the remains of the fire. There was some wood left, stacked by the side. Hastily he grabbed some of what was left and tossed the pale, dry branches into the slowly glimmering embers. A tongue of flame licked up the wood, another followed as one of the branches cracked loudly when the fire woke from the smoldering ashes.

 

Aragorn came close to reading his mind, as he hastened back to them, selecting the longest branches from the firewood and lit them as torches, handing them to the Hobbits. “There, they will be better than swords.”

 

They exchanged a swift glance, and there were no words needed, as they swiftly pushed the Hobbits close to the fire and joined the defenders around the camp. A cold gust of wind brushed against Boromir’s skin when another howl rose in the air. He listened to the deep wolf’s voice, was this a normal wolf or a Warg? Had Warg riders found them again? He was about to ask Aragorn, when he saw a movement in the shadows outside their circle. The enemy was here!

 

The next moment, the wolves were upon them, attacking from nearly every side. Boromir saw their shadows move through the darkness, racing here and there as they sought for a weak spot in their circle. They clearly tried to reach the Hobbits, who stayed close to the fire, within the protective ring the other members of the Company formed around them.

  
Boromir had not heard the wolf coming, but he saw the shadow moving from the corner of his eye. Reacting in reflex, his body acting before his mind caught up, he drew his sword, ducking under the jump and then coming up, thrusting the sword straight up, the hitting the wolf’s underside as they hairy beast was above him. The blade thrust deeply into the beast’s belly, he could feel the hot blood run over his hands before the dying wolf’s jump broke and he fell to the side, his weight a merciless pull on Boromir’s arm, , yanking the sword from his hands.

 

He had to let go of the blade, and used the short moment he had to grab Truefire. The hilt did not feel slippery even as his hands were gory. Swinging it, he beheaded the next wolf in one clean stroke, the corpse tumbled to the ground, but more were coming their howls like angry shouts in the darkness.

 

Arrows hissed into the dark, Legolas shooting wolves on the other side of the camp, preventing their approach from that angle. Standing with their backs to the fire, Gimli, Gandalf and Legolas defended the far side of the camp, while the two Men held the other one. Boromir saw a wolf slide past Aragorn, it was a huge beast the Ranger had not seen coming and that was trying to get into his back. Sprinting over Boromir buried the axe deep in the wild beast’s neck, hearing a scream behind him, where Aragorn had destroyed a wolf who had come up behind him. They had saved each other. Turning around they attacked the wolves again, covering each other as they reduced the number of the attackers.

 

A scream made both Men turn. One wolf had made it past Legolas and jumped at the Hobbits. Merry and Pippin both moved towards it, trying to keep it off Frodo as they brandished their swords at the unimpressed beast. Boromir winced. No swordsman could see their movements without feeling pain; those two were in desperate need of some lessons. Before he could tackle the wolf, Gimli had already the beast’s furry skull with his axe. With a last, furious howl, the remaining wolves backed off and fled into the night.

 

TRB

 

“One, two, three – good!” Boromir easily caught the smaller blade in a block, but Merry was improving.

 

It was the seventh night since the wolf attack, and each evening had been spent giving some much-needed sword lessons to Merry and Pippin. The way they had held their swords had been enough to make any warrior cringe, and he had found it outright offensive. Both Halflings were eager to learn and once they learned to use their small stature to their advantage, they would become quite good in their own way. Much of the lessons had to take their height into account, but Boromir found he enjoyed the challenge teaching them presented.

 

The Halflings kept surprising Boromir. They were strangers to long travels or hardships of any kind, but they were eager to do their part and learn, and when pushed, they proved hardier than their youth and cheerful attitude suggested. Time and again, it made Boromir wonder about their homeland – it must be a peaceful and safe place. In all his life, he had rarely seen such a place, for peace and safety were a luxury his people did not have any more. But seeing these two young Hobbits, he thought that it was maybe not as useless that they were fighting the Shadow.

 

They exchanged another set of attacks. Merry had become quicker during the last days; he also had lost his fear of blocking the attacks of a taller opponent, two things vital for such a small warrior. He even tried the ducking block Boromir had shown him the previous night.

 

Pippin, who already was through with his lesson today, was sitting close by on a boulder, his hairy feet happily dangling in the air as he watched and cheered Merry on, much like Merry had done for him before.

 

“Move your feet!” Aragorn was watching the lesson again, often helping by showing the Hobbits the proper forms or giving advice. He put away his pipe to get up just as Merry lost his blade for the fourth time in a row. Gracefully, Aragorn picked the sword up, handing it back to Merry, who smiled ruefully.

 

“Thanks so much, Strider. I never seem to get anywhere. Boromir is so strong.” Merry said, casting a glance at the tall Gondorian.

  
Aragorn hesitated a moment, before he squatted down to talk to the Hobbit. “That he is. But that does not make him invincible…”

 

Boromir did not catch what the Ranger whispered to the Hobbit – he only saw that Merry returned back to the field more confident. Thorongil had a skill in instilling confidence into others, and a way of understanding that often echoed the wisdom of e healer.

 

Boromir stepped back to give Merry some more room for the next bout. “And again.” They went through the forms again; it was the first blocks, parries and thrusts that nearly all swordplay was built upon. Merry managed to last through more repartees than before, and then he suddenly ducked and dodged one of Boromir’s attacks, causing him to overbalance and stumble. Quickly, the Hobbit used the advantage he had to tackle the taller warrior and toss him down.

 

“For the Shire!”

 

Their scuffle only lasted moments before Boromir managed to grab the Hobbit and toss him off. He was careful to not toss him too hard, though, as Merry had not yet learned to break a fall and would more than likely end up injured being thrown on the stony grounds. Getting to his feet, he saw Thorongil grin and he realized he had just seen something that closely resembled a prank comrades may play on each other. His good humor was unfortunately disturbed by Gimli discussing the Mines of Moria with Gandalf again.

 

“I have my doubts about that path,” Aragorn said softly, his gaze darting forth and back like the mention of the place alone was enough to make him restless. “Moria is a dark place.”

 

It was easy to hear the worry in Aragorn’s voice, but Legolas’ warning shout alerted all of them of the Crebain-swarm approaching quickly. They scrambled to hide under the bushes and branches as the crows swooped past them. And for the first time in weeks, Boromir had the same feeling of being watched that he had felt when he first passed the Gap of Rohan more than three months ago.

 

TRB

 

Frodo slipped on the snow on the icy pass, his feet scrambling in the loose snow as he tried to find purchase. The soft material gave in even more, sending him tumbling downwards and to the edge of the cliff.

 

Boromir who was further above turned and hastened back as swift as he could. He hardly cared about the treacherous ice under his feet, trusting his own balance to not fail him as his eyes were trained on the small tumbling figure, grasping for hold on an iced over rock spike. For a moment it looked like Frodo’s fingers had found support in the dark stone, for his fall broke and Boromir breathed a sigh of relief. It would not do for the Ring to land in a deep chasm stretching thousands of feet below to their left.

 

A shriek alarmed him to Frodo who had lost his grasp on the rock and was yet again sliding down the slopes. Inwardly Boromir hated that he had thought of the Ring first and not of the small figure quickly slithering towards the abyss. Taking the risk he jumped on the hard icy edge of chasm, sliding down some of the way, reaching out to grasp Frodo, their hands touched and he pulled with all his strength, but the small hand slipped through his fingers as Boromir landed further down in a heap of snow.

 

But the short yank by Boromir’s arm had redirected Frodo’s fall a little and he was lucky that Aragorn caught him swiftly before he could slip down farther or fall off the jagged cliff’s frozen edge. Boromir pushed himself back to his feet, the fall had not injured him and turned to Frodo to check if he was alright. But before he could walk up to him his eyes caught on a glittering spark in the snow, highlighted by the rays of the winter sun. Only a step away the ring lay on its silver chain between the treacherous heaps of fresh snow.

 

Boromir reached down, picking up the Ring on the silver chain the Halfling wore. It glittered with a frosty pale spark in the sunlight, colder than the snow itself and was much heavier than the fragile thing looked to be.

 

 _An icy hand seemed to brush Boromir_ _’_ _s back as a hot wind tousled his hair. He stood at the crossroads in Ithilien, facing towards the road to Minas Morgul. At his back stretched an army: hardened fighters, survivors of countless battles, Men of Gondor, Riders of Rohan, Rangers of the North, all waiting for his command, ready to march up that pass and retake the former Minas Ithil and cleanse away the shadow that was now called Minas Morgul. They stood in silence, awaiting their Captain_ _’_ _s command._ His _command. He drew his sword, pointing it towards the pass…_

“Boromir! Give the Ring back to Frodo!” Aragorn’s voice cut through the whispers, bringing Boromir back to the harsh realities, to the cold pass in the heart of the Misty Mountains.

 

A part of Boromir wanted to retaliate with the sword for the harsh words, he wanted to silence the Man daring to oppose him. The Ring shone like spark before his eyes, and suddenly there was the cold gust of wind again, brushing through his hair. Slowly Boromir exhaled, trying to focus on where he was, marshaling all control he had.

 

He had sworn to protect the Ringbearer… and yet the Ring in his hand seemed to create a distance between him and the promise he had made. He would only need to close his hand around it and… No! He had given his word. Holding himself to that one thought Boromir walked down the icy slope towards Aragorn and Frodo. The chain with the Ring weighed heavily in his hand – even the movement of extending his arm to give it to the Hobbit made the small thing weigh more than a steel great sword and for a moment he feared that he could not let go of the chain but Frodo grabbed the Ring the moment it was in his reach and pulled it out of Boromir’s hand.

 

“Surely. I care not,” Boromir said, forcing the words out and quickly ruffling Frodo’s hair. He could well see Aragorn’s hand on the hilt of his weapon and Frodo’s gaze that all too clearly accused him of betrayal. Boromir turned quickly and headed on, evading their eyes.

 

Shame welled up in him. They trusted him to be reliable where their Quest was concerned and he… he still harbored doubts about their chosen course. No; he had to be honest with himself: he had _not_ been in control of himself only moments ago. That was what frightened him the most. Had he acted out of a well weighed, rational decision, he would not be ashamed, but this… He had been acting beyond the control of his own mind, and that was inexcusable. Others were relying on him and he could hardly keep command of himself. The gaze from Frodo, the silent accusation of betrayal, stung more than anything else. Boromir had never broken his word, never gone back on a promise in all his life, and now… now he nearly had broken his word to Frodo and the Council. It was a shameful admission, even inside his own head.

 

And the worst was he knew that no matter his doubts, no matter his fears or hopes, any slip up, any weakness, any moment such as this meant he would do the work for the Enemy, becoming a tool in the hands of the one he had been fighting for all his adult life.

 

TRB

 

It was a way without ways it was a day without light, snow fell thickly from the skies, veiling anything further away than two steps in a pale blur. Boromir pushed his foot deep into the snow to create a kind of path for Frodo and Sam walking right behind him. The two Halflings walked with their shoulders hunched, drawing their cloaks deeply around their small shoulders. At the end of the group Aragorn provided similar aid to Merry and Pippin, who walked as shivering, sometimes Boromir believed he could hear Pippin’s teeth chatter.

 

A noise from above warned him, he knew that sound, the hard, dry crack in the ice, immediate herald of an avalanche. Pushing Frodo and Sam towards the rock face, Boromir stood before them, leaning against the rock to provide some additional protection as a heavy mass of snow crashed down on them. He felt the heavy impact on his arms and shoulders pressed against the icy rock, but under him was a space of air, preventing the Hobbits from being buried fully.

 

It was over as swiftly as it had begun and he could move again, shaking off the loads of snow still on his shoulder. He thought his back would break but he managed to push the snow behind him and down into the ravine.

 

“Thank you, Boromir,” Frodo peered up at him, the Halflings brows were snow-encrusted and the dark locks hanging into his forehead were frozen stiff.

 

Carefully clasping their shoulders Boromir guided the two Hobbits along the narrow passage, lifting them across the heaps of snow, where Gimli was being dug out by Legolas. The dwarf appeared more disgusted than hurt by snow. Peering ahead Boromir could see Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff. When would the wizard realize that crossing any Mountains in the midst of winter was a bad idea?

 

The second avalanche nearly took the two Halflings for it came without warning, except for Legolas mention of fell voices in the air. Boromir counted himself lucky he managed to hold onto Frodo and Sam as the tumbling snow nearly ripped them all into the chasm yawning to their right. He could feel both Hobbits cling to him as while the snow almost buried them. When it was over he carefully set them down as close to the rock face as possible. It would provide a little shelter at least. “Boromir, are you all right?” Frodo shouted over the storm, cloth-wrapped fingers reaching for his own cheek.

 

Touching his face, Boromir realized that an ice shard had cut him. The wound was already freezing over. “It is nothing, just a scratch,” he shouted back. “Try to keep to the rock face.”

 

They marched on, and the wind began to howl with such an anger that Boromir truly believed Legolas heard voices in the air. He kept his eyes on Frodo and Sam, as he tried to shelter and aid them best he could, just as Aragorn was doing for Pippin and Sam behind him.

 

The snowfall increased and the blizzard became stronger as they advanced farther on the Redhorn Pass. For each step they climbed up the wind seemed to push them harder and icicles began to mingle with the snow, their sharp bite hardly to be distinguished from the cold teeth of the wind.

 

The third avalanche was not just snow – it was also rocks having come loose high above them. Boromir only just managed to push Frodo against the rock and Sam before him, leaning over them against the cold stone again, to shield them as the stones began to fall with the snow like hailstones, most of them landing in the masses of snow, but some did not miss the group: one bounced off Gimli’s helmet; another hit Thorongil’s shoulder. Boromir felt some bounce of his back but he did not move, gritting his teeth until it was over.

 

“Frodo, Sam, are you alright?” The words were accompanied by another load of snow coming down on them, free of stones thankfully. He could see the frightened faces of both Halflings, they were half frozen, surrounded by a merciless storm in heights that they should never have been dragged into.

 

Boromir irascibly shook off the snow that was cloaking his shoulders with a thick white layer. “Gandalf! We can’t go on. It will be the death of the little ones,” he snapped, angry at the Wizard. Even he or Thorongil would hardly last another day in these conditions. The Halflings would be the first ones to freeze to death or fall if another cornice came down. “We need to find shelter and wait the storm out.”

 

Gandalf did not react to his words, nor did he look his way, his eyes were focused on a peak above them and he suddenly raised his staff, shouting words into uncaring grey of the day. Whatever it had meant, Boromir could not decipher, but it seemed like the wind lessened a little.

 

Gimli came up under some snow with a growl and reached for Legolas. “He is right,” the dwarf grumbled, looking up at Boromir. “and you are wrong, caves in these parts are rarely unoccupied.”

 

Boromir had squatted down, putting his arms around Frodo and Sam, sharing what warmth his furcloak could give. “I will gladly risk an audience with his Malevolence if it gets us out of this storm, Gimli!” he shouted back, to be heard over the wind.

 

Wordlessly Gimli turned away, following Legolas who moved easily over the snow to search for a hiding place. It did not take long for Legolas to return with reports that Gimli had found a cleft they could find some shelter in.

 

The cleft proved to be the entrance to a small cave, not very deep, yet enough to provide some shelter from the wind. Boromir had guided Frodo and Sam inside, remaining at the entrance to help Thorongil with Merry and Pippin, who looked even more frozen than before. The air inside the cleft was chilly, but without the wind’s perpetual draft it felt less cold than outside. The bundles of wood they brought with them from Hollin were all but frozen in the storm and it took Gimli time to start a fire and keep it ablaze. The warmth it gave seemed shallow in the icy breath from the storm outside, but it would keep them alive.

 

“All paths across the Mountains seem barred to us,” Legolas stood at the far end of the cleft; he alone did not feel the chill and left the room by the fire to his comrades.

 

“We cannot go back,” Frodo said to Gandalf, who was standing near the entrance, peering out into the storm. “There must be another way.”

 

“We could go south,” Boromir spoke up, helping Merry to get out of the frozen straps of his pack and remove the cloak that was frozen stiff around his shoulders, before the melting ice could soak the Halfling. “Split up in groups and sneak past the Gap of Rohan unseen. Once we are in Rohan, we reunite and go on. The Rohirrim are friends of Gondor and would give us aid to reach Minas Tirith.”

 

“The Gap of Rohan is closed to us, Boromir, as long as Saruman holds Isengard,” Gandalf said turning around to face them. He leaned on his staff heavily and suddenly seemed older than he had been ever before. “There is yet another road we may try. I did not speak of it before – not before it was needful, for it is a dangerous path to choose.”

 

“No.” Aragorn looked up from where he was crouched beside Pippin, helping the Hobbit melt the ice that welded his scarf to his hair by cupping his hands, already heated above the fire, around his curly head. Traces of deep pain lingered in his grey eyes, before he lowered his head to return to his task, and Boromir found his thoughts drawn to Kíli, who wore a similar expression when speaking of the battle for the Mountain home. “We spoke of it before, Gandalf. It is not a road we should use unless all other options run out. Lord Elrond sent scouts ahead of us – one of the lower passes may still be open.”

 

The Wizard’s brows furrowed as he considered the advice. “No, Aragorn. The passes are closed to us, as surely as the Gap of Rohan. The Mines of Moria are the one way that we still may take.”

 

Gimli nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with new fire. “Some of my kin ventured there years ago, led by Balin son of Fundin. My uncle Óin went with him too. They would lend us aid.”

 

Boromir cast a glance at Aragorn. Why was it that the Ranger was the one who usually talked sense in this group? “The one time Kíli mentioned Moria, it was in dark words. He did not say much, but anything to bring such a haunted, pained expression to anyone’s eyes can’t be a good place.”

 

Now he had drawn Gimli’s attention, for the dwarf frowned in his direction before waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s Dwarven politics, Boromir. Balin’s decision to reclaim Moria broke the remaining exiles apart. With Kíli’s role as something of a leader among them, it most likely came as a bad blow for him to have disappointed Balin as he did.”

 

Aragorn, now finished with Pippin, raised his hand, forestalling more words. “I agree with Boromir: the whispers I have heard of Moria in recent years are dark indeed. No one dares to speak out loud of this place anymore.”

 

“Yet it is the road we must take,” Gandalf said, his voice firm and brooking no arguments. “We cannot go back, and we have no other road forward.”

 

A hush fell over the Company, one which naught but the frigid whistle of the wind dared disturb.

 

Eventually, Frodo stirred. “We all are tired,” he said, his pale face taut with strain. “Let us rest for the night and decide our new road in the light of another day.”

 

There was another piece of sense in this madness. “I will take first watch,” Boromir volunteered, seeing the others were as exhausted as he was. After what had happened on the mountain, after having nearly fallen to the lure of the Ring, it was the least he could do to make up for his fault. The others agreed and soon settled down close to the fire. Boromir stood, leaning against the still frozen wall of the cleft entrance, watching the storm raging outside. There was nothing but the dark and the whirling snow, yet now and then he thought he could hear fell voices over the wind.

 

“It’s calling to you, is it?” Boromir flinched at the small voice, soft but an edge of resigned strength, hand leaping to his sword before he could stop it. He craned his head left to watch Frodo settle down on a rock by the cleft’s narrow entrance. .

 

Boromir averted his eyes, unable to meet Frodo’s friendly gaze, ashamed for what had transpired earlier on the pass. He knew that with any derision, with any slip up, he’d only do the Enemy’s work. The Enemy worked through betrayal and dissent, he had seen it before, he should know better. But it was hard to keep the gnawing doubts at bay. “I can only beg your forgiveness for what I nearly did,” he whispered.

 

A small hand reached for his, squeezing his rough fingers. “No… I understand.” Frodo looked at him earnestly, understanding and compassion in his wide eyes. “I feel it too. It whispers, it grows. It wants to leave me – it knows I am a prison to it. It longs for someone stronger, someone like you through whom it could achieve true power.”

 

Freeing up his hand, Boromir grabbed Frodo’s shoulder. “Promise me when it happens again you will get away. You will run. Do not look back – do not let me break the trust you so freely gave. Promise me.”

 

“You are stronger than that, Boromir,” Frodo replied, not pushing his hand away. “I know you’d never allow yourself to betray us. You are too strong for that.”

 

“I do not know how much strength I still have, Frodo,” Boromir was surprised that he could confide in Frodo of all people. “my people expect me to be strong, to lead them through this war, to somehow keep us holding up if not winning… and I see how we are pushed back, little by little, step by step… and I see only more darkness ahead.”

 

“But this time you do not have to bear it alone,” Frodo said gently, “I know little of war, or how to save your people… but I will promise you to run should it ever be necessary, and you will promise me that you will seek me out, when you feel the burden getting too much.”

 

Boromir closed his eyes, leaning slightly against the cold rock of the entrance. How could he respond to such trust, to such loyalty, undeserved as it was? He must not allow another moment of weakness to happen. He had to keep strong, even if he hardly knew how to fight off the call, or to somehow silence his doubts regarding this mission. He nodded silently, the only agreement he dared to give, not trusting his voice, and Frodo settled down beside him, sharing the watch.

 

TRB

 

The next morning, the storm had not passed, merely lessened to a point that allowed them to make their way down the pass again. Aragorn and Boromir carried the Hobbits through the drifts of snow back towards safety. Boromir was not sure who was more surprised, himself or Aragorn, that Frodo choose to go with him when it was his turn to be carried across the deep drifts When they were below the dreaded Redhorn Gate, a last avalanche came down, blocking any path back up the treacherous slope.

 

It seemed like a sign of sorts that the weather got better the farther they got away from the passes. Eventually, they were on snow-free grounds again, and the wind was not so cold. Instead, there was a darkness that began to hover over the land, like shadowy mists creeping from barren trees, growing stronger and stronger with each mile they got closer to Moria. Boromir could not help it, the sight of the mighty dark mountain roots encompassing the path to Moria felt darker and more fearsome than even the word passes in the Mountains of Shadow.He felt a dread chill clasping his heart when the true walls of Moria finally came in sight. Nothing good awaited them here.


	8. A hunt in the dark

** Chapter 7: A hunt in the dark **

 

When the gates of Moria opened, Boromir was not sure if he preferred the dark, dank pool outside or the equally black gate into the mountain. He hardly heard Gimli speaking of the great kingdom of the Dwarves, eyes fixed on the blackness, trying to see anything except shadows and specks of light dancing in his vision. He tried not to blink to make them go away faster, for it would obscure his already vague eyesight even more. His boot caught hold in something heavy and metallic almost making him stumble; a sharp scratch sounded on the stone when he removed his foot from what proved to be a gauntlet wrapped around the bones of an arm. He finally saw more than just dark shapes as his eyes became used enough to the darkness for him to see the ground before his very feet and what he saw made him freeze where he stood. Bodies. There were bodies everywhere: rotting corpses, bones, full skeletons in plated armor strewn across the steep stairwell, each and every one of them smaller than a man. They were Dwarves, dead Dwarves that had been massacred and left to rot in this accursed place. “This is no mine, it is a tomb. We should never have come here.” His very voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, and it was echoing too loudly through the hall before them.

 

A scream behind them made them turn around, only to see Frodo dragged off by a many-armed creature rising from the lake. “Strider!” Sam shouted his voice cracking with panic. Merry and Pippin were close to the entrance, too, they drew their blades, though Boromir saw the short edges quiver in their hands and Pippin took a step back before stepping forth again.

 

“Stay away from the water!” Boromir shouted as he drew his sword. Neither he nor Aragorn wasted any time, racing after Frodo, Legolas following them, while Gimli pulled the other Hobbits away from the swirling, dark waters.

 

An arrow hissed by Boromir and hit the thrashing beast, which was shaking Frodo even harder. Boromir reached the water’s edge and waded into the murky brew without hesitation to attack the creature’s many arms. It roared hollowly, lashing out at them, the waters swirling as a dark mouth came up above the waterline, dirty teeth gnashing at the two warriors. Boromir swung his sword at another tentacle as it erupted from the water, the creature thrashing more wildly. He had never seen such a beast before and he had seen no small number of the beasts the Black Lands would employ for their armies. His vision filled with the flailing arms and the bulged mouth, he saw little that would indicate a vulnerable attack point.

 

Frodo screamed as the creature swing him close to the open maw. A thought colder than even the water Boromir stood in touched him. If that thing ate Frodo, it would also eat the Ring, the weapon of the Enemy lost in the intestines of a dark beast. He could not let this happen. Disregarding his own safety, he dashed forward, bringing his axe about in one forceful attack. Truefire’s blade left a deep gash in the water-dweller’s side. The creature roared again and swung Frodo through the air more wildly but luckily away from its jaws.

 

He saw that Thorongil had ducked under one of the tentacles and, with one swift stroke of his blade, severed the arm that held Frodo. Boromir just had enough time dash to the right and catch the falling Halfling. Holding Frodo against his chest, he suddenly felt the echo, the whispers of the Ring closing in on him. Gripping the Halfling harder, he forced them out of his mind, focusing on their escape, evading the tentacles as he got Frodo out of the spraying pond. Behind them, the creature became frenzied, rising fully from the water, long tentacles reaching past Boromir as the thing supported itself to get up.

 

An arrow of Legolas’ only pushed it back for a moment but it was all they needed to escape. They had to retreat into the open gate of the Mine, for the creature blocked off every other route, forcing them into the dark tunnels. Its long arms pushed close the doors of Moria, rubble and stones crashing down almost upon them as they raced deeper into the black. A single rock glanced off Truefire’s haft, but that was all. The thunder of the collapsing stones crashing down, cracking and breaking, was so painfully loud that the sudden silence that seemed to drown out all their own sounds after was deafening and nearly as hard to bear. Darkness fell around them, heavier than the tons of rock piled at their feet.

 

“We now have but once choice. We must face the long dark of Moria.” Gandalf’s voice cut through darkness as he lit the crystal on top of his staff to allow for some vague light.“Be on your guard – there are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world. It is a four day journey to the other side. Let us hope our presence may go unnoticed."

 

Four days. That was a new thought for Boromir. He had often heard of the huge mines of the Dwarves and of their underground kingdoms, and Faramir had certainly tried to instill some learned knowledge into his older brother, yet hearing that it would take them four days to cross these halls certainly drove the message home. Squinting a bit as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he looked around.

 

The traces of a dire fight were all over the stairwells. Neither side had claimed the remains of their dead; they lay where they had fallen, their bodies a silent recording of events. Boromir could read much of that skirmish in what he could see in passing. The Dwarves had extracted quite a price form the Orcs but eventually had been overwhelmed. The Orcs would have had the superior numbers and the Dwarves had been forced to defend against attacks from three sides. A brave, but hopeless battle had been fought in these halls, and he would dare to guess that the attack had come by surprise, and that the Dwarves had put on an all the more impressive fight. If the numbers of Orcs slain were of any real consequence, they would have made an impressive dent into the enemy ranks. Unfortunately, Boromir knew all too well that for every Orc a warrior might slay, three more would rise to take its place. If that had been the beginning of the battle, he was curious how the following war had gone; sad as the outcome must have been, a part of him wanted to know what had transpired, and be it only because those who fought the Shadow should not be forgotten, someone should remember them and be able to speak of them, even if all others chose to forget.  Still, he was relieved when they were past the stairs and there were no new corpses in the halls they walked into.

 

They walked for hours and hours. In the dim light of Gandalf’s staff, they began to perceive the mines of Moria. And Mines they were in the beginning, dark shafts falling steep into bottomless chasms, cranes, wheels to pull mining trams up broken tunnels and the remaining mechanics of an ore wash were their way signs. Boromir could only compare this place with the mining settlement of Bofur in the north, and to the mines in the White Mountains, but that was a failing comparison. What skill and strength did it take to not only create such huge mines but to brave chasms like the one they walked past?

 

The march was not easy: several times they came upon places where the path was broken or destroyed. It took Aragorn and Boromir to help the little ones across such obstacles. Gimli, who should have been more at home in these surroundings, had fallen into a brooding silence ever since the events at the gate. Boromir understood that seeing the death, the long ago slaughter of his kinsmen, must come as a shock for him.

 

Something reflected the faint light of the staff, multiplying it many times over. Boromir saw Thorongil raise his hand to shield his eyes against the sudden light and Legolas actually turned his back to the chasm the sudden light too bright for him. Only Pippin peered beyond the jagged edge of the ledge to see more. Boromir grabbed the Halfling’s pack to steady him before he could fall. “Pippin!” Merry whispered, dragging his young relative away from the deeps.

 

“Moria’s wealth was not in gold, or jewels, but mithril.” The aged wizard extended the staff beyond the ledge to allow them a glance at the mithril vein that had reflected the light in the first place. Boromir peered down but his eyes were not really on the silvery ore that the wizard’s attention was focused on, but on the deeps. This was not a chasm – it was a huge mine extending many levels into the depths of earth. He could see ladders and bridges, doorways leading away, and even stairs of stone winding up the side of the walls. Beside him, Thorongil steadied himself against one of the ancient beams, like he was uneasy with the deeps suddenly revealed.

 

“Are you all right?” Boromir asked softly. “Were you injured in the water outside?” He could not fathom what would make a Ranger search for a hold like that while the ground was still steady under him. They usually were not afraid of heights, if Faramir and those he commanded were any indication.

 

“No,” Aragorn replied, his eyes narrowing a little. “I… I have been here before, Boromir. And it was not my wish to ever see the long dark of Moria again.”

 

Darkness fell again, the glimpse into the deeps gone, much to Boromir’s regret. He would have liked a further glance at the Mines. “We will get through this, Thorongil,” he said encouragingly. “Whatever haunted this place, you do not have to face it alone this time.”

 

Their gazes met and Boromir perceived a strange expression in the Ranger’s eyes. It made him feel like he had overstepped their comradeship and intruded on territory Thorongil did not wish to share. The other Man turned wordlessly and marched on, following the Hobbits along the ledge.

 

“Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him,” Gandalf stated at the top of their column.

 

Gimli gasped, the throaty sound leaping into the dark and bouncing into the chasm. “That was a kingly gift!”

 

“Yes, I never told him that it was worth more than the entire Shire,” Gandalf replied, amusement echoing in his voice.

 

Boromir shook his head at their words. He did not know the story, not beyond the parts he had heard from Kíli, but he thought that if Thorin had been a warrior like Kíli, he might have seen the chainmail shirt less in terms of its worth in gold, but its worth in keeping a comrade alive.

 

As they proceeded farther, the structure began to change around them, the stark mining areas falling behind with more and more processing places adding to the maze of tunnels and halls.

 

Gandalf spoke in whispers of the fall of the Mines, of the mithril found here, and of the inexhaustible wealth of Moria that had led to greed and digging deeper and deeper into the darkness below. Boromir hardly listened, his eyes taking in the huge halls and wide walkways they passed. What a huge city – what a realm, a kingdom hidden from the eyes of all Middle-earth. How many generations had labored, expanding these halls, creating marvels that were still visible after generations of abandonment that shone through even under the grime of ruin and defeat? It must have been so long since any living soul had walked these halls, and centuries since it had sunken into the shadow, and still… he could still see the echoes of this great realm shining under the rubble of ruination. How had a nation so strong and proud enough to create such a kingdom fallen so far? Had their numbers waned until their strength ran out and the Orcs numbered beyond counting? Had their fate been similar to Gondor’s? To wane and dwindle, stemming the tide of darkness until the last strength broke? Had they too been forgotten and alone in their moments of despair?

 

“We should rest here.” Gandalf had stopped walking at a doorway, pointing them to proceed inside. It led to one of the many dark chambers that could be found invariably along their path. There were neither remains of a workshop nor any other things that would give a hint at the room’s former purpose. But there was a soft, wet smell hanging about this chamber. Boromir inhaled slowly, trying to place the smell beyond simply wetness. When Gandalf followed them inside, the light of his staff illuminated an empty guardroom with a well. Most of the ring of stones that once had framed the well was smashed, the rubble splayed across the empty room. All that remained of it was an empty hole in the ground. Boromir squatted down, checking that it was truly a well, not a shaft to climb up swiftly, as guards sometimes used.

 

“We have been walking for more than a day,” Gandalf said. His eyes went towards the Hobbits, who had retreated from the hole as far as they could, crowding together in one corner of the room.

 

There was little debating at what Gandalf had said, and the entire Company settled down best that they could. The Hobbits had already chosen the corner farthest into the room; Gimli too retreated deeper into the chamber, lying down on the rocks, and soon began to snore softly. He was the only one to find sleep at once. Now that they were resting, the perpetual darkness of Moria crept closer at them and every noise, every faint echo, even the sound of their own breathing, seemed to enhance in the great silence that lay like a heavy blanket on the Mines.

 

Boromir leaned against the broken wall near the door and closed his eyes. Pippin would wake him once it was time he relieved him of watch duty. Sleep came sooner than he’d hoped, its thick tendrils wrapping themselves around him and pulling him deep into its dark depths.

 

TRB

 

_For long ago when lanterns burned_

_Until this day our hearts have yearned._

_The final Orc tumbled down the chasm. Boromir did not waste a second glance at him, instead racing to catch up with the troops at the main hall. White lamps lit the huge dome of the ceiling. Kíli turned around to him, a wild fire shining in his dark eyes. “You were right: their leader had no plan,” he said. “Take your troops and sweep the stairs of Anulbar; Dwalin has the other side. We_ _’_ _ve got them on the run.”_

_“At once.” Boromir turned to his men. “Nari, right flank; Calin, point with me!” They were winning this battle and they would win this war_.

 

TRB

 

“Fool of a Took! Throw yourself down next time and spare us the trouble.” Gandalf’s harsh voice ripped Boromir from his dream just in time to hear something crash in the dark, and a resonating _doom, doom, doom_ ring out from somewhere deep below them.

 

“What happened?” He sat up fully, his hands closed around Truefire’s solid steel handle, the cold metal reassuring in his hands.

 

“You were the only one to sleep through that,” Thorongil responded, somewhat amused, although his eyes were flinty in the way Boromir recognized as a warrior preparing himself for battle. “Pippin tossed a stone down the well and it has been heard.”

 

“Do we keep moving or do we risk staying?” Boromir was already struggling back to his feet, and the Ranger reached for his shoulder.

 

“No, none of the others are up to another march. Let us share watch duty between us and give the others some hours of rest.”

 

Looking around, Boromir could see the startled Hobbits in their corner; they had drawn Pippin close to them, like their sheer presence could protect him. Each time the drums picked up again in the deep, they drew closer to each other. Gimli stood, bleary eyed, and even Legolas looked disturbed by the events. When Boromir’s gaze fell on Gandalf, he noticed that in spite of his anger, the wizard stood slumped, leaning heavily on his staff. He was exhausted. Thorongil was right: this was not the time to press on.

 

“All right, I’ll take first watch,” he volunteered at once. He knew Thorongil was just as tired as the Hobbits, and even the Dwarf’s natural endurance was waning, as his tired eyes and silence at the events showed.

 

Both Men moved to the entrance of the hall and sat down, but kept their weapons close at hand, ready to fight should something come crawling out of the deeps. The Ranger procured a small, shining item from his pack: a stone radiating a soft light that would allow them to see at least their immediate surroundings, if not much more. Boromir relaxed against the stone, content to sit and watch, listening to the echoes in the silence. “You should sleep, Thorongil,” he said softly, seeing the other Man was yet awake. “You will need your strength.”

 

Their eyes met, and Boromir was surprised to find a haunted, almost terrified quality in Thorongil’s gaze. Only now he also saw the tense posture, shoulders hunched and hands twisted into each other until the knuckles stood out white. “I can take watch,” the Ranger said softly, avoiding a direct answer.

 

With a sigh, the Gondorian pushed away from the wall, leaning forward so his low speaking would not wake the others. “Something is haunting you, Thorongil,” he said, and Aragorn was surprised to hear some genuine concern in Boromir’s voice. “It has been haunting you since we passed through these gates.”

 

How he could be so unconcerned by the darkness around them, by this huge silent tomb, was beyond Aragorn. Maybe the Captain of Gondor had learned to mask his fears better, or he was truly unafraid. Whatever fault he may find in him, Aragorn had no reason to doubt Boromir’s courage. “I have been here before, many years ago,” he replied, not sure if he should show such blatant weakness to a Man who already was inclined to doubt him. He had been much younger then, more easily lured into dangers, not as sure to evade them. “It was not a casual decision that made me come here… I had learned of the fate of one of my kin… my father… who might have still been kept captive in these deeps.”

 

Green eyes assessed him, friendly, even with a spark of understanding. “And you went after him – that was brave,” Boromir replied.

 

“It had been a ruse, a way to lure me here, and I was stupid enough to take the bait, in spite of Gandalf’s warnings.” Aragorn had not wanted to confess as much; he felt he had exposed too much of his own weaknesses to Boromir.

 

The Gondorian reached out, his strong hand lightly squeezing Aragorn’s arm. “You believed he was still alive, and as long as you knew no different, you could not do anything but go and search for him.” Boromir spoke with conviction now, his voice firm and assured. “It is never easy to climb from the darkness, Thorongil, but no night is unending.”

 

“You sound like you know,” Aragorn said, seeing a flicker of pain, of remembered suffering in the other Man’s eyes. The longer they spoke, the more he saw how much of Boromir’s stern façade, which was so reminiscent of Denethor, was only that, for the Man underneath was a far more complex individual.

 

“I had my own stints in enemy hands,” Boromir replied, a pained edge in his voice. “Fighting the Shadow incurs its own punishment.” Quickly, he recovered from the harsh tone that had crept into his voice and spoke in more even tones. “No creature, no shadow will come near you as long as I stand guard, Thorongil,” he promised, and it was with the air of a Man who could make good on that promise.

 

It seemed like an irony that the Man who would despise Isildur’s blood so much would go out of his way to reassure Aragorn like that. Nevertheless, Aragorn was grateful for it. “Thank you,” he said, before leaning back, closing his eyes, taking some measure of comfort in the fact that he was not alone in Moria’s endless night.

 

Alone, with the others having drifted back to sleep, Boromir settled to watch. The silence did not haunt him – he trusted his ears to warn him long before anything could come close. His thoughts were with what Thorongil had said of this place, and then strayed back to the dream he had. It was the strangest thing to ever invade his sleep. What could it mean? Why had he been fighting here, with Kíli and other Dwarves, to retake Moria? Or was it just that he imagined things, because of the sadness this place exuded? It was well possible – one of the warriors, Dwalin, had strongly resembled a mercenary that Boromir had met in prior campaigns of Gondor, and that man had certainly not been a Dwarf. Maybe his mind was playing strange tricks on him? He could not tell, though he pondered these questions long into his watch.

 

*-*

 

Their journey continued for another two days, spent with endless walks during the day and, for Boromir, restless nights plagued by strange dreams he could hardly remember by morning. During the third day, he thought he heard noises behind them: soft feet swishing on stone floors, arrows hissing in the dark, and a strange shadow moving in the darkness, unseen but with small almost inaudible noises. Something was following them. Boromir was even more watchful than before, but he still found himself distracted by the vast Dwarven city they travelled. While themines were sad and dark, he found them less depressing than he had expected. For the first time, he truly understood what fascinated his brother so much with the lore of the Elder races.

 

Gandalf had stopped at a crossroads where three ways met their path. The old wizard stood frowning, his staff held aloft so the light would illuminate the writings on the stone arches. “'I have no memory of this place.” He spoke softly, his beard quivering when he shook his head.

 

Boromir looked around, trying to assess the place, to see if there was any hint that might serve them as aid, but there was nothing. Their path had climbed steadily, until it led into the crossroads. Broken rocks sat before a battered staircase connecting three doorways. To their right, the walls were broken, forming a jagged ledge above a chasm.

 

The Fellowship settled down for a welcome break after three days’ worth of marches. Boromir chose to sit on the ledge, to keep an eye on the dark chasm beside them; Thorongil settled down not far and unpacked his pipe, like Merry and Pippin did. Boromir wrinkled his nose; he had gotten used to the Halflings and the wizard indulging in this strange habit, but seeing it in a fellow Man was still curious. But in this place the soft smell of the smoke was a welcome change from the stale air.

 

The Hobbits sat close to each other, smoking their pipes as they whispered softly amongst themselves, speculating on Gandalf being lost, and Merry chastising Pippin over something. Their hushed squabble, which inevitably involved food, or the lack thereof, made Boromir smile. These two all too easily made him feel like a much older brother watching his young siblings. He relaxed, keeping an eye on the dark below, content to wait until Gandalf had worked out how to go on, or maybe Gimli could…

 

“Gimli!” he called out in a hush, barely above a whisper. “Can you tell what direction these arches lie? We need to go east.”

 

“Why do you think I know more of this place than you do?” the Dwarf grumbled. “And all three arches lead vaguely east. I have never set foot into these halls before. If you think that Dwarves can talk to rocks to find their way underground…”

 

“No one would imply such a ridiculous thing, Gimli,” Thorongil spoke up, and Boromir could hear an echo of humor in his voice. Still, he took it as a warning to not induce Gimli to get any louder or talk more.

 

It was Frodo who spotted the soft swishing feet somewhere down below them this time before Boromir heard them. “It’s Gollum; he has been following us for three days.” Gandalf appeared unfazed by the stalker that had hounded their steps since they had entered these halls.

 

A squeal ripped through the silence of the darkness below them. “Nasty Dwarfses… nasty…”

 

Gandalf leaped to his feet, extending his staff across the ledge, the light falling down on the ledge below, illuminating two figures standing on the edge. Or rather, one Dwarf holding a thin, mangled creature, screeching and writhing in a chokehold above the chasm, ready to drop it down. Was he interrogating the creature? Boromir was not sure what that thing was – it might be a thin Orc scout. The white light touched both figures, and Boromir’s eyes widened as he recognized the familiar figure of Kíli down there. The thin Orc in his hands was desperately scrabbling his feet to find firm ground on the ledge again, and it still was cursing in a strangled voice.

 

“Let him go!” Gandalf’s voice was clear and commanding, echoing through the wide halls. “Let him go, Kíli son of Dari.” _Go… go… go… Dari…Dari… Dari,_ the echo returned, the cavern amplifying the wizard’s voice, letting it fade away and come back like an unearthly whisper.

 

The Dwarf obeyed the order after a moment’s hesitation, flinging the mangled creature as far from himself as he could so it landed on a ledge of rocks farther away, and, after picking itself up, it fled into the darkness, cursing him at least a dozen times.

 

“Kíli, will we always meet in the depths of the mountains?” Boromir could see the creature escape into the darkness and he did not even want to know why the wizard had ordered the creature to be spared. Right now he was gladder to meet a friend in these deeps. “Can you come up here?” The ledge was too steep to climb and they had no rope.

 

The Dwarven warrior glanced up. “You are at Tharnul Crossing; I will be with you swiftly.” He reached down to grab his pack and set off into the darkness.

 

True to his word, he appeared again from the same way they had come not long after. He moved in the darkness with the familiar ease of someone who lived underground by nature. Only Boromir seemed to see the glowing jewel that Kíli quickly slid into a pouch at his belt when he reached them, because none of the others reacted to it. “I should have reached you quicker, but that little maggot cost me time,” Kíli said, exhaling sharply, the glance he shot Gandalf conveying more frustration than even his voice.

 

“Why are you following us at all?” Aragorn asked, having risen to his feet also, his hand having sunken on the hilt of his sword, his feet firmly planted on the ground, ready to fight. “And how would you even know that we are in these deeps?”

 

Kíli bowed lightly. “Guruth gothrim i Mithrim - Death to the foes of the Grey Company.” He spoke the phrase carefully, his baritone voice lacking the same musical sound Elves naturally carried in their intonation, no matter what tongue they spoke. When pronouncing the words of their own melodious language, it was especially audible. With Kíli, the Elven words gained a sterner, grimmer expression that was foreign to them.

 

It did not need more than these words to ease the tensions – Aragorn recognized the phrase immediately. “You are the scout for the mountain passes?” he asked. “I should have guessed –you were the obvious choice.” He let go of the sword hilt, relaxing visibly as he gave up the stance he had taken before. “You have proven before you can navigate these deeps… You found me when I was trapped here, and you later found the truth of Haravan’s fate.”

 

Kíli shrugged. “That was in the years before the Orcs regrew the numbers they lost in the Battle of Five Armies, Aragorn, when the deeps were empty,” he replied. “I saw you approach the West Lake from higher above and realized then what you were planning.I spent some time catching up to you. Had I not met that slimy thing, I would have reached you yesterday when you came through the third hall of Darugnar. However did this little cretin get on your tracks? It followed you precisely.” His eyes made contact with Gandalf. “And why would you not be rid of him? Lord Elrond was quite clear on dangers being kept away from you.”

 

Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Gollum’s fate is not in your hands,” he reminded the Dwarf. “Not all dangers are banished by killing.”

 

“Not that you have been avoiding danger,” Kíli pointed, out looking at them one after the other. “It was a dangerous choice to come here – Moria is steeped in shadow.”

 

“You know that no one was alive here?” Gimli asked, his hands shaking in anger, his face draining of all colour. With a loud growl, he smashed the handle of his axe on the rock strewn ground. “How… You knew?” he repeated, his voice growing louder.

 

“Aye.” Kíli inclined his head. “I am sorry, Gimli. I know your uncle was amongst those who came here. Balin… He paid a terrible price for entering Moria.”

 

Gimli pushed past Legolas, raising his axe with both hands, ready to fight. He stood before Kíli, rage clearly visible on his face, the axe in his hand poised to strike. “If you knew, if you were here, that begs the question how you survived! How would you have survived what killed all the others by the gates? What did you do to save your own skin?”

 

Boromir grabbed the angry Dwarf by the shoulder and pulled him back. “Stop it, Gimli. I won’t have you always claim the worst where it comes to Kíli, nor threaten him. There are many ways to know of a doom without having been touched by it.” He could feel the glances of all the others on him; he had just taken a side, but in what conflict was not yet clear to him.

 

“I think Kíli should answer the question,” Gandalf said gravelly, “for no one knew of what had befallen Moria.”

 

Aragorn shook his head. “Gandalf, I came across Dwalin son of Fundin no less than two years ago in Bree. There must have been others who returned from this place. Maybe they left before it was too late.”

 

“You all saw the massacre at the gate – no one escaped,” Gimli growled. “And he… he should explain well how he would know.” He glared at the slightly older Dwarf, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he shook off Boromir’s grip. “”What happened to you, Kíli? They said you were brave… they said you stood over Thorin’s body and fought like a wild mountain lion… Did bitterness so twist you? How could you flee and leave the others to perish in this place?”  His gravelly voice nearly broke. “I once thought I knew you.”

 

Boromir exchanged a quick glance with Thorongil; he was that short of truly grabbing the dwarf and shaking him but that would help no one, there had to be another way to deal with this.

 

The Ranger approached Gimli, gripping his shoulder to make him turn around. “Gimli,” he said, his voice calming, trying to reason with the angered Dwarf. “No one knows what happens here, and just because Kíli knew their doom does not mean he was here at the time they died. More than once brave warriors were too late too late to save their people…”

 

“If his consciousness was so white, why did he then not return to the families of those who were missing and let them know what happened to their kin?” the Dwarf bellowed. “No, Aragorn, he left them behind… he fled.”

 

Struggling to not verbally flay the Dwarf, Boromir sought Thorongil’s gaze again, who still stood in front of the raging son of Glóin, he hoped that their comrade might better understand what kind of conflict this truly was about. The Ranger shrugged, a gesture implying that he did not understand the Dwarven anger but also that answers may be better.

 

Boromir turned back to Kíli, who stood unmoving. When the Dwarf felt his gaze on him, he looked up, his black eyes meeting green, and Boromir was startled by that once glance. Kíli’s eyes shone with horror – he’d dare say with unshed tears – and held such a pained, haunted expression that bespoke more than a nightmare he must have encountered in this place. This place held no good memories for him. “Kíli?” Boromir asked softly. “No one here believes these accusations, yet answers could shed the doubts from minds.”

 

 A great sadness flickered in those dark eyes before it vanished and was replaced by a calmer expression. “I understand, my friend. It is a long tale.”

 

Boromir knew what just had happened: Kíli had pushed the pain away, not allowing himself to be ruled by it. He knew so well because it was a tactic he often used himself. Still… to push aside so much pain took tremendous strength of will. “If you are ready to tell it.” He softened his demand for an answer. Had it only been himself, he’d have taken Kíli’s word, but unfortunately there was doubt in the others.

 

“The hour will wait on no one.” Kíli put down the skimpy pack he was carrying, only keeping the Dragonblade within easy reach of his hand.

 

Boromir led Kíli towards the broken stones in the middle of the crossing where he could sit. Boromir remained standing close behind.

 

The dark-haired Dwarf drew a leg up to his chest, leaning on it with his arms. For a moment, he closed his eyes, as though composing himself, but Boromir heard a soft, whispered word sounding like _Mahal_. He did not know what it meant, though the tone of voice implied Kíli was searching for the strength to begin his tale. “I was in the south when Balin’s message found me, asking me to come to Moria. The journey took months, and when I arrived, I did not find my friend…”

 

TRB

 

_The chisel nearly slipped from Kíli_ _’_ _s fingers, cluttering on the smooth stone beneath his hands. Impatiently, he grasped it more firmly, continuing the band of runes on the stone tomb. Beside it he had already inlaid the Winterwolf_ _–_ _the symbol of Balin_ _’_ _s family. The silence was pressing down on him and the empty chamber of Marazabul, only interrupted by the metallic song of the chisel as Kíli completed the tomb inscription. His thoughts wandered years back while he worked. When Balin had spoken of retaking Moria, Kíli had tried to talk him out of it. Balin of all people was content with life in the Ered Luin. He had never longed for riches or fame. But this time Kíli had not reached him. It was neither for greed nor gold that Balin would wage this venture. He only wished to see the line of Durin restored to Moria. Hoping to dissuade him, Kíli had gone as far as refusing to join him, praying Balin would abstain from the risky undertaking._

_When the messenger had found him, the letter had been enthusiastic, speaking of great success. And Kíli had not found it in his heart to disappoint his old friend_ _’_ _s wish, thus he had ridden to Moria, four hundred leagues across wilds and plains. But when he arrived at the Mines, the tides had turned. Khazad-dum was under attack from Orc hordes, and Balin… dear, brave Balin had been mortally wounded in the first battle. All Kíli could do was sit with him, saying his goodbye, thanking the old warrior for a life lived in loyalty to his family._

_The last rune was finished: two clean lines between the ornaments. Kíli wished he had the time to make this stone coffin into a fitting monument for a Dwarf so brave and loyal as Balin had been – he deserved to rest in an elaborately adorned crypt, but it was doubtful there would be enough time to even finish this simple tomb. His fingers traced the lines, brushing away the shards remaining from the work._

_Here lies Balin son of Fundin_

_Lord of Moria_

_Kíli had placed the title there, despite knowing Balin had never wanted that crown for himself. He had wanted to see rulership returned to Thorin_ _’_ _s bloodline. Yet, Balin_ _’_ _s very deeds had earned no other title._

_“He’_ _d chide you, if he saw this,” the deep voice grumbled behind him. Kíli did not need to look to know it was Dwalin. The huge warrior had taken command of what Dwarves remained when Balin fell, and he was the only one who had come here since… since Balin had been laid to rest._

_“He was the one who led our people here and held Moria, even if it was only for a time. Anything less would make little of his accomplishments.” Kíli turned to face Dwalin. He could well imagine the pain the older Dwarf was going through. All too vividly he remembered the day Fíli had fallen… the pain still lived on inside him and he knew how turn Dwalin had to feel right now, like half of him was cut away forever. He was surprised to find Dwalin much more in control than he had any right to expect of a Dwarf who had just seen his own brother buried, and was embroiled in a fierce struggle with little hopes of aid._ _“How is the situation out there?” He was weary and heart-sore, but he asked anyway, knowing that Dwalin had come here for that very reason._

_“Tense. We are holding ourselves for now, but the Orcs are getting reinforcements. I pulled the troops back from the upper reaches and the great hall to Halling’_ _s Crossing and Dwenderholm passage; we can hold those points more easily against great numbers,” Dwalin reported, to Kíli those were not just words, they were places he could chart on a map inside his mind, comparing the positions to what were the major routes in and out of the territory they still controlled. . And he only could do so because long ago he had the chance to enter the lost hall of maps and memorize the secrets written into its walls – secrets only readable to one who knew how to decipher them. “What we will do now… depends on you.” The older warrior gave Kíli a grave look._

_Kíli put the chisel aside on one of the few remaining racks of the chamber of records; then, turning back to their conversation, he came to stand at the foot of the grave. He knew the time of decision had come: it was now up to him, if the others would accept him. They were well led by the mighty son of Fundin, and yet the grim warrior expected a decision from Kíli. “Will you be with me, Dwalin?” he asked softly._

_Dwalin_ _’_ _s eyes widened, like he was horrified that Kíli should even ask. He drew his axe in one fluid move and went to one knee, presenting the blade to Kíli raised on open palms. “I, Dwalin son of Fundin, make this oath under the eye of Mahal: that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Kíli son of Dari of the House of Durin, that I shall be in the forefront of fierce battle, forging ahead with my lord and friend, coming to the war-call carrying my weapons; and when no battle causes the war-horn to blow, I shall not forget my duties, but will offer wise counsel as I may. And though I had rather lay down my life than see harm come to my lord, still should the poisoned point or aged edge strike him down, then I shall not flee a single foot-length from the field, but rather shall advance into the enemy army, slaying as I might, to avenge the protector of the people. And by Mahal, and by Eru's gift, may this axe smite me upon which my hand rests, may my own edge twist and turn against me should I fail to keep this oath.”_

_Kíli_ _’_ _s first reflex was to hinder Dwalin kneeling down but he couldn_ _’_ _t, and knew he could never rebuke that oath, given in honest loyalty. It would deeply hurt his old friend if he so did. So he straightened up and placed his hand on Dwalin_ _’_ _s bare head. “I have heard your oath, as have the forefathers. Hear you then my vow to you: no loyalty shall be forgotten, if to the law court you are called, in legal tangles twisted and tied, then I and all of my kin shall stand as oath-helpers if you should need this; and finally, my sword shall stand between you and your enemies, my strength beside you boldly, for bare is a brotherless back.” It was a shortened version of the full oath, the only promise Kíli was able to give and uphold still. With his House in exile, any other promise would have been meaningless._

_When the oath was spoken, he touched Dwalin_ _’_ _s shoulders, pulling him up and into an embrace, deeply moved by the loyalty the mighty warrior had shown him. After a moment, Dwalin stepped back two paces, and, folding his hands behind his back, straightened up a bit. “What now, my Prince?”_

_“Gather all that are willing to follow me – we are leaving Moria,” he said firmly._

_“We lost the gates,” Dwalin pointed out._

_“There are ways, Dwalin: secret passages through Moria, hidden doors only known to the House of Durin himself,” Kíli explained. His hands lightly touched the side of the stone tomb, like he wanted to reach for Balin, to let him know even in his sleep that he would find a way to save the others. “We will need to go deeper, as it is the only way to evade the Orcs crawling up from the deeps to fight us. But if we move swiftly and fearlessly, we shall pass through the shadow before they can reach us.”_

_The broad-shouldered warrior_ _’_ _s eyes went to his brother_ _’_ _s tomb, and Kíli could well understand how the man felt. Kíli_ _’_ _s own brother slept in a similar grave a thousand leagues from here. “Your brother_ _’_ _s dream was noble and brave, Dwalin,” he said softly, “and I wish with all my heart that he had succeeded. That he was with us still. But he fell, and we stand no chance to fight this out. He would never forgive me for seeing your lives sacrificed for nothing.” Kíli’s voice nearly broke at those words. He did not want to abandon Balin’s dream – not because he cared about the crown of Moria but because Balin had hoped and fought so fiercely for this. But in his heart of hearts he knew Balin had valued life above hoarded gold and ancient fame. And while every word cut into Kíli like a knife etching this moment into his soul, he would do what was right, and what he knew Balin would agree with, could he be with them. Oh, if he just were… “Even if we conquer these Orcs, there still is Durin_ _’_ _s Bane to contend with and he won_ _’_ _t sleep for long when Durin_ _’_ _s blood walks these halls,” he added more softly, hardly daring to speak of the older and fouler dread haunting the deeps of Khazad-Dûm._

_If no other argument reached Dwalin, the last did. “I will call for them,” he said, turning to get down to business._

_TRB_

_“You can’_ _t just do that – you have no right!” Ori shook his fist as he spoke, the scribe’s voice rising above the background murmur of the others._

_Óin stood beside him and most likely only heard Ori’s words, his hearing having further declined with age. “You betray all Balin dreamed of,” he grumbled at Kíli._

_Kíli squared his shoulders. “Balin never advocated to waste lives on cold gold and jewels – he believed in life and in making good use of the time that we have,” he said as he approached them, trying to somehow reach out to the people who had believed in Balin’s vision. “And I feel in my heart that he would not wish us to waste even one man to defend a tomb. Not even one as beloved as his.”_

_They moved, one by one and slowly – Bladvila and Bifur were first to walk over and stand with him and Dwalin, others followed, many hesitatingly, some glancing back to the others. Inwardly Kíli felt each of them like an invisible weight – each of them on both sides of the line. With each of them coming over to his side, he hoped… hoped that the others too would see reason and would abandon this quest and with each of them the weight rose – they trusted him to know the way out, to pull this off, their lives were on his shoulders now._

_Yet, there was a large group of dwarves still undecided, standing grouped closely around Narvi and Fjalaris – the clan of Dwenderholm Passage had been part of this quest, of the dream to reclaim their ancient home. Their line linked with Moria as long as Kíli’s own… all the way back to Durin the Deathless and his companions._

_“I am staying,”_ _Ó_ _in announced suddenly. “I will not give up Moria easily, even if Durin’_ _s blood has lost the will to fight.”_

_Kíli had to prevent Dwalin from striking down Óin for these words, but the ill was done: the split became a rift. Several dwarrow from Narvi’s group joined with Óin and Ori, forming a group around them, some casting harsh glances towards Kíli._

_“Narvi?” Kíli turned to the old crafter who stood with one hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder. “I know you were one of Balin’s first supporters in this – but all our hopes have turned against us now and the Orcs number beyond counting. You once said to me that you did not need to see the dragon to know he could not be fought at the time... it is the same now and the survival of our people weights more than a dream.”_

_“What would you know of it?” Ori snapped. “You gave up on Thorin’s dream as well.”_

_Kíli whirled around, trying somehow to control the pain erupting inside him, the decision he had made that day by Thorin’s grave, by Fíli’s grave… it had been to protect those he cared for. “Like Balin Thorin respected his comrades enough to not sacrifice their lives needlessly,” he said, unable to prevent his voice from becoming hard. “and that was my reason for yielding to Dáin’s demands that day.”_

_“And it is your honest decision, as the last of Durin’s Blood that Moria cannot be held at this time?” Narvi asked, his empty eyes eerily finding Kíli. “That the dwarrow need to find home elsewhere?”_

_Kíli straightened up, it was the legacy Thorin had passed onto him and would expect him to uphold, exile or no. “It is, Narvi. We have no hopes here but we can save our people to survive elsewhere.” The next words were hard – harder than almost anything before. “as the last of Line of Durin I declare this mission lost – Moria is to be abandoned again.”_

_“And we will go with you, my Prince.” Narvi said, joining him along with Fjalaris and many of the others, only few remained to join with Óin. Kíli looked at them and felt his heart sink, for he knew with sudden clarity that he would not be able to convince them as well._

_Three nights and the darkest journey of his life later, Kíli was the last of two hundred Dwarves to climb out of one of the old watchtowers in the flank of Zirakzigil. After pulling himself out of the narrow gap in the wall, he looked back, his eyes tracing the path they had come. From the deepest darkest pits of Khaz_ _â_ _d-D_ _û_ _m they had climbed to the heights, risking places ancient and full of danger, and daring even the deeps fallen under the shadow of dread. He knew he should be relieved, glad to have made it out of the night, but his heart clenched in pain as he thought of those still down in the night of Moria, unable to escape, having neither the knowledge nor the bloodline to find their path out of the Mines._

_A strong hand gently clasped his shoulder, leading him away from the gap. Like so often, Dwalin was there: strong, reliable, with a loyalty and willpower unequaled. He led Kíli away from the tower and towards the camp the others were making. Behind them, night fell upon Moria._

 

TRB

 

“We left Moria for the Ered Luin the morning after,” Kíli finished. Boromir saw how he wrapped his arms around his drawn up knee, like he was trying to shield himself – whether from the pain or from the stares of the group, it was hard to tell. His voice had become shaky and soft over the last part of the story, the memory of those who had insisted on staying behind a haunting echo in his eyes. Boromir could not imagine what it felt like, seeing so many of one’s own people choose death, the hunt for useless glory and getting massacred, having to leave to rescue those sensible enough to see reason, and having the outcome for good or ill on one’s own shoulders. It was a weight to easily crush anyone, and it had etched its markings into Kíli.

 

“I do not know what happened after we left. But it is not hard to guess. Dwalin and I agreed on fortifying Cardemir and making it our true city… where I could not stay, for reasons most of you will know,” the Dwarf went on, and for the first time Boromir interrupted him.

 

“I know little of your people, Kíli – much less than I would like. Why could you not stay with those who had clearly chosen to follow you?” He could see that it was another aspect of something paining Kíli. To be forcibly separated from one’s own people, forced to leave them to fate… he could not imagine bearing that.

 

“Dáin… King Dáin Ironfoot of Erebor, I should say,” Kíli replied, the glance he gave Boromir nearly grateful for the distraction, “had enough of uncrowned Kings, or that’s at least how he put it. He put pressure on every Dwarven place I stayed too long in – pressure of trade most of the time. He declared a ban on trading any goods, deliver any wares or conduct business with any clan or settlement that openly recognized me, or where I stayed for any prolonged time. Two of the other seven kingdoms… two other Dwarf lords are with him on that, and are enforcing the ban as necessary. I cannot bring even more strife and hardship to my people, Boromir, trade is our main way of survival in Eriador. They chose exile because of me – if I have to stay away so at least trade will be undisturbed, it is the least I can do.”

 

Silence fell upon the group assembled in the silent crossing. Gimli had bowed his head, saddened by what he had heard and maybe shaken by it too, as he refused to react to what Kíli had said about the trade disputes. He knew the other side – the position of King Dáin through his long friendship with Dáin’s only son, Prince Thorin, but with what he had heard here he did not have the heart to argue their position right now.

 

Gandalf shook his head but offered neither comfort nor council. Boromir had not moved from his spot but still observed Kíli with surprise. He knew little of Dwarves, had learned most about them during the last weeks, but to find his friend, his comrade, was an exiled Prince of their kind was something he had not expected.

 

The roll of a drum ringing out from the deeps startled them out of their silence, _doom_ they rang, _doom doom_ , the echo carried their sound back, until it was impossible to say where they came from. Boromir’s hand fell to the axe, maybe it was through the tale he had heard, but he expected Orcs to break through one of the gateways any moment.

 

Gandalf’s gaze went to the three arches, still undecided, and for the first time Boromir thought he saw a true sign of desperation in the old wizard. He truly had lost his way in these halls.

 

Kíli grabbed his pack slinging it over his shoulder, before he drew his blade. “I have heard these drums before.” His voice had taken a grim edge.

 

Looking at him Boromir wondered why the obvious answer had not occurred to him before. “Kíli,” he spoke up, “if your House knows Moria so well, can you guide us out of here?”

 


	9. What follows in Shadow

** Chapter 8: What follows in shadow **

****

Kíli’s head had been tilted, listening to the rolling of the drums that echoed from the deeps, much like he was able to discern the direction and distance they were emanating from, in spite of the many echoes twisting them.  “I can and I will” He turned around to look at the others. “It is one and a half days to the other side and we will have to be careful.”

 

“I thought we were down here for more than three days already,” Boromir observed, following Kíli towards the upper doorway. “And we have not been slow to walk.”

 

“Were we to stick to the direct way, across the Hall of Wisdom, Hall of Records, and right towards the Guard’s Gateway, we could make it in less than ten hours,” Kíli agreed, “but whichever one of you tossed something down the old watcher’s well woke too many things…” from deep down they could hear the same _doom doom doom_ again. Drums in the deep.  “They are coming up, we need to go down to evade them.”

 

“Would a shorter way not make more sense?” Boromir was not easily deterred. “The quicker we get out of here, the less chance they have to cut us off.”

 

“We don’t have much of a head start and they can easily scale steep walls,” Kíli replied. “We need to avoid the great halls; they have less of a chance to bring their numbers to bear in small tunnels and narrow passages.”

 

That made sense to Boromir. A passage barely allowing one man to stand in could be held against an army of attackers much better than against encirclement, when they could be overwhelmed easily by numbers – numbers they didn’t have.

 

“Further down?” Aragorn’s voice was tense, he stood with the Hobbits, having helped them to swiftly grab their packs again. “Kíli… I may not be sure, but I peered down the lowest archway leading out of here and it looks like it is leading down to the works…” his voice trailed off, the last words so low that they were barely audible.

 

Kíli who had already walked over to the archway, turned around. “I know,” he said, his voice held an edge of understanding, that Boromir could not decipher. “Risking the gallows is our best chance to evade their troops. I’d prefer a different route too.”

 

“And you are sure you know where you are leading us?” Gandalf’s eyes were still fixed on the three archways, like he was trying to remember something that had slipped his mind. “You might as well end up leading us into the arms of the horde.”

 

“No, Gandalf, he is right.” Aragorn had straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “Kíli found me down there long ago, he knows these halls, better than anyone else.” He looked at Kíli. “Lead the way. Legolas, you go last, you the Orcs will not easily kill from behind.”

 

TRB

 

It was a different journey that now began. It was not just that their guide moved through the vast underground city with ease and familiarity that bespoke knowledge of these halls, but the very paths were different. Small tunnels, steep ledges hidden high above walls, and doors none of them could have spotted, let alone known the right words for. At Boromir’s questions, Kíli would sometimes explain in whispers that they were passing the former pewterer’s stairs, the lantern maker’s cantlet, or the armorer’s well. The first time they had to risk a greater hall, it was one filled with constructions. Huge wooden beams lined the wall and were linked to others and connected to large wheels vanishing into the walls. Where the beams reached to the ceiling, they interlinked with the large shafts of no less than twelve huge hammers that hung from the ceiling. Boromir assumed that a movement of the wheels would move the hammers to come down on the huge stone benches.

 

“What are those?” he asked in a hush as they slipped along the wall of the large room. He could see a gate at the other side but was glad they did not have to move in reach of the hammers; he did not like the idea of one these huge metal heads coming down on one of them.

 

“First Well of Hammers, often called the First Hammer.” Kíli peered up to the ceiling that lay so deeply in shadow that it was impossible to perceive much beyond the vague shape of the hammers. “They used to be driven by water and their main purpose was to hammer sheet metal.”

 

The sheer size of the crafter’s quarters astounded Boromir, enough to make him forget for a while the foreboding words about “the gallows” that Aragorn had mentioned when their journey had begun. This city… one might think of fitting Minas Tirith and Minas Ithil in here and still leave room for much more, and this was just the crafter’s quarters.

 

Ahead he saw Kíli raise his hand gesturing them to squat down, seek cover in the shadows while the dwarf scouted ahead towards a narrow tunnel. Boromir cast a glance back to their group, he was right behind Kíli, with Aragorn, behind them came Gandalf with the Hobbits and Gimli and Legolas were at the end of the group. In the dim light he could see Aragorn who pressed a hand against his mouth like to stifle a noise. “Are you alright?” Boromir asked, the deeps affected Aragorn more than any of them.

 

“That tunnel… it leads into the gallows.” Aragorn said in a whisper, and let his hand sink down. “I do not know what the dwarves called the place, Thirán had a name for it, but for most of the captives it was simply the gallows. Walk through those stone gates and you will see the hanged man, and the chains…”

 

“Neither of which is there at this moment.” Kíli’s deep voice interrupted them; the dwarf had returned and squatted down beside them. “They gave up on that after someone stirred up Durin’s Bane so badly… no one dares to cross him.” He looked towards the tunnel. “Come, we need to be swift.”

 

Boromir kept beside Aragorn as they entered the narrow tunnel. The stench reeking from it was too familiar to not recognize – sweat, urine, dirt and desperation, the stench of an Orc dungeon. So Kíli had been involved in Aragorn’s escape from the Deeps and Thirán… Boromir vaguely recalled a Dwarrow of that name in Bofur’s settlement; small wonder that the Ranger was apprehensive about these deeps and willing to trust Kíli.

 

They came out on a broad ledge from an above bridge Boromir saw a chain dangle and was this… was this a skeleton still hanging there? He could clearly make out the shape of pale bones up at the chains; gallows, a fitting name. Kíli used a steel hook that looked like an Orc-tool to fish the chain closer and yanked the bones free, they fell cluttering into the deeps below. “We need to climb up, this brings is five full levels above, and into the lapidary reaches.”

 

A shortcut, if a gruesome one. Boromir waved the Hobbits closer. “Aragorn and I will carry you up,” he said.

 

The first time they climbed the wildly swinging chain, Boromir carried Sam up and Aragorn took Frodo. It was a long climb and the cold metal cut into Boromir’s hands as they made their way up into the endless darkness above. His arms were burning when he saw Kíli on a narrow bridge to his right, extending both hands to help them over. Carefully Boromir set down Sam first and then jumped onto the bridge too. It spanned a deep chasm, that harbored the many levels below. He looked for Aragorn who came right after and delivered Frodo to them. With Kíli to guard the two Halflings the two men climbed down again and got Merry and Pippin next, behind them their comrades followed this time.

 

From the bridge their path led through dark and dirty levels, full of ancient smelters, melting pits and other works, and while they sometimes heard the drums from afar, most of the time they moved in a heavy silence, without the slightest trace of any other living being but themselves.   

 

Hours later, after passing through Smelter’s Deeps and the lapidary’s reaches, Aragorn called them to stop. “We need to rest; the Halflings are all but dropping from exhaustion. We do not all possess Boromir’s steely condition.”

 

Boromir arched an eyebrow. He was as tired as the others but had registered it less while they passed through the most fascinating city and mining operation he had ever seen. He simply had not thought of his exhaustion for hours, but now that he was aware of it, he felt his aching muscles and the tiredness in his bones. “He is right, Kíli. I cannot even begin to tell for how many hours we have walked.”

 

“There is an old watch post not far from here,” their guide said after a moment’s thought. “We should be safe enough there.”

 

And indeed it was not far. The watch post lay above the normal level they walked, only available through a hidden stairwell. While it consisted of naught but two empty stone rooms, it was enough. There was a kind of window carved into the wall opposite of the entrance, which Kíli immediately went to, gesturing Boromir to follow him over as the others flung themselves onto the chill stone to claim a few hours’ rest. Boromir joined him, quite glad for the opening, as it made him feel less trapped under the low ceiling. But Kíli pointed through the window that opened to a large cavern that lay beyond, so large that Boromir could not catch the slightest glimpse of walls. It nearly felt like staring into a starless night on the surface. There was a light, faint but clearly visible, coming from somewhere in the darkness, sometimes flaring up stronger for moments that never lasted long enough for him to determine its point of origin.

 

“There are shafts in the ceiling allowing daylight to pass into the halls,” Kíli whispered. “In times of old, the light would be caught and amplified by crystals under the ceiling. They were the famous lanterns of Moria and would fill the whole chasm with their shine.”

 

Again, the crystal caught the rays of light and, this time, a bright beam filled the seemingly unending blackness of the cavern. In the sudden light, Boromir saw across a huge domed hall towards a city – a whole city built into the mountain itself: roads, houses and towers, crowned by a palace shaped like a fire-blossom growing from the dark mithril-veined stone itself. The black material with the many silver veins made the stone nearly look alive, shimmering and glistening in the reflected light. “The city of Khazâd-dûm, that your people called Dwarrowdelf,” Kíli whispered.

 

Darkness dropped again, taking away the vision of the huge heart of Moria… Dwarrowdelf, but Boromir smiled. He’d never forget what he had just seen.

 

TRB

 

When Boromir woke from a deep and surprisingly restful sleep, he heard the familiar voices of Kíli and Gandalf, even as both tried to keep their tone down as to not disturb those still resting. “We have shaken them off, thanks to your guidance,” the old wizard said. “And I suggest we go to the bridge and leave Moria quickly. The longer we tarry, the greater the risk they will find us again.”

 

“The bridge is risky – it’s the best known way out, Gandalf.” Kíli stood leaning with his back to the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. “And if they have archers, it will be a death walk.”

 

“There is nothing in this Mine that is not a deathtrap. I did not accept your guidance to have us remain here longer than we have to.” The wizard’s beard quivered angrily as he snapped at Kíli.

 

“No, you led them onto a territory that you know little of, and your hardly can afford to lose part of the company already.” The dwarf’s deep voice was harsh, and reminded Boromir of what Kíli had said back in the lone lands, that he linked Gandalf’s plans somehow to the death of his family.

 

“Spare me the stubbornness of your kind.” Gandalf clasped his staff, straightening up to his full height so he towered over the Dwarf. “You have all the pride and stubbornness of your uncle.”

 

Boromir tensed at these words and pushed himself up. Bringing Kíli’s fallen Uncle into this was not a wise move on the wizard’s part. Both turned around when they saw Boromir’s movement. Kíli relaxed his stance only a little, Gandalf’s frown deepened. Boromir could feel the anger standing between them like a shadow. Where Kíli had his past with Gandalf, it seemed the wizard was careful to trust him, but then, Gandalf’s trust was strangely given, Boromir reminded himself. “We cannot afford to argue amongst ourselves.” He pointed out, forcing his voice into the same quiet that he’d use when arguing with Imrahil back home. “You both seem to have a point about the way, yet we need to choose what the best path for us is if we want to escape the deeps.”

 

Kíli looked up at him, and very slowly his stance relaxed more, shoulders easing out of the tension. “Alright, we take the bridge. It is dangerous, and will kill some of us, if the Orcs bring archers… though that is a risk we can handle. The longer I stay here, the greater the chance of waking Durin’s Bane, and we stand no chance against him.”

 

TRB

 

Amid a tense silence, they set out again, climbing up several long stairwells until they finally came out into a much wider set of stairs leading through a huge chasm. Deep below in the dark shaft surrounding the long stairs fires burned, red light shining on the powerful columns supporting the stairs, casting shadows on the surrounding walls. When they came out of the cover the walls had offered, several arrows hissed past them. Legolas reacted swiftest of all, shooting several Orcs from their vantage points. “Kíli!” he called out to their companion, who followed his example, focusing on the other side of the hall, where Orcs were hiding on a ledge above them.

 

Aragorn and Boromir took point as a number of Orcs scampered up the stairs at them. Side by side, the Ranger and the Captain cut through their attackers. Each step down the long stairs was hard fought for: bodies began to litter the ancient stone steps and black blood ran down the pillars in rivers. Neither Man could say how long they had fought when they finally reached the bottom of the long staircase and came through another archway that led into a hall. They ran, hoping to shake off the Orcs still hunting after them.

 

But when they came into the great hall at the foot of the bridge, the whole hall was aflame, fires burning up along the pillars, tongues of flame licking at the walls like they were timbers. A roar rose above the fires, and out of the fire’s dancing shadows a pair of wings took flight.

 

“What is this new devilry?” Boromir did not know how he could still ask, how he could still _think_ – the dread coming from those flames and shadows was worse than anything he had ever known. But his heart refused to stop, nor would his mind or limbs freeze up. He did not know from whence the strength came, how his soul found the spark of defiance, the spark of will that would not quit, nor give in, even when faced with this shadow. He raised Truefire, closing ranks with Kíli and Thorongil, ready to face the night.

 

“Durin’s Bane…” Kíli’s eyes had widened, the sword trembling in his hands, and a sheen of sweat shone on his pale face. He could not look away from the beast, from the very thing that had driven his family from these halls so long ago, and that still roamed the ancient deeps of Moria.

 

“A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world.” Gandalf leaned on his staff, shoulders slumping. His voice had become low and raspy, suddenly sounding very tired. “This is a foe beyond any of you. Run!”

 

What happened next was something none of the Companions would ever forget; something that would haunt them for many years to come. The black wings swirled in the air as the mighty creature swooped down, the storm of the wings alone was too strong to stand against. The companions were swiped aside, thrown towards the walls and pillars of the hall as the Balrog landed in front of Gandalf, a fiery blade appearing in its dark claws. Gandalf’s staff glowed with terrible light. “I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn!” he shouted, raising his sword. Elven steel met the fiery blade, and flames shot in all directions from the short impact of weapons. The very ground shook under them. Another pass broke a large chunk off the ceiling, and it came crashing down and smashed the bridge, trapping them on the wrong side of the chasm.

 

Gandalf raised his staff, a ray of sheer light throwing the Balrog back a few steps. The wizard turned his ashen face to the companions. “Run, you fools! Swords are no use here.”

 

Aragorn reacted swiftest. “Kíli – is there another way out of here?” he asked the Dwarf, who had just struggled back to his feet after the storm of the Balrog’s wings had thrown him against one of the pillars.

 

The Dwarf Prince was pale, but standing firmly, no shaking hands nor shocked face betraying fears any more. His face had become a stern, frozen mask. “Follow me,” he said, his voice icy and cold.

 

For the first time he knew him, Boromir heard neither accent nor inflection in Kíli’s voice. The words were cold, flat and devoid of anything, even life. He understood that Kíli was building a barrier inside him between the horror he was faced with and the task set before him, creating that distance to being able to function in the midst of battle. It was a skill good soldiers, strong survivors had – the best of them would be able to keep it up right under the wings of a Nazgul. But Boromir could hardly imagine the wealth of emotion frothing beneath the surface of his iced-over words. 

 

They had to cross the hall, an undertaking of deadly proportions because the battle of Balrog and wizard had just begun and neither were using their power sparingly. On the far side of the hall, near the back, was a small flight of stairs leading up the very walls of the hall to a gateway above. They ran up, but just as they reached the top of the stairs, they saw the Balrog’s sword become a whip and grab Gandalf; however, the dark creature had overextended its own reach, and both fighters plunged into the chasm, the Balrog’s dark wings whirling to break the deadly impact. They both vanished into darkness, and the flames died down.

 

Shrieks echoed from the fresh shadows as Orcs poured out of their holes. The Company raced through the gateway and down another tunnel. It was a horrible flight through the darkness. They barely saw where they were going, Orcs behind them and danger ahead with every step they took. For more than an hour, they did not know where Kíli was leading them, until their path led them directly into a dark wall. Aragorn and Legolas spun around, their eyes quickly surveying the corridors left and right along with the one they had come from. Shrieks rose from the darkness to their sides as Orcs poured into all three hallways, spears and arrows flying towards the Fellowship. One spear barely missed Sam, and another grazed Frodo. “It’s a dead end!” Legolas turned to shoot the first Orcs.

 

“It isn’t.” Kíli put his hands on the wall, whispering words none of them understood, and suddenly a glowing doorway opened before them. “Hurry! There is no time.” They hastened through the doorway, stumbling out in another tunnel, a tunnel with the faint light of day at its very end. Behind them, the doorway of stone closed as fast as it had appeared, blocking the Orcs off on the other end. If there was anything to give them strength again, it was the sight of real daylight. They ran up the tunnel and out of the dark Gate of Moria.

 

TRB

 

The light of midday bathed the vale beyond the Gates of Moria, saving the Fellowship from the Orcs still down in the tunnels underground. They all were tired, exhausted beyond anything.

 

Boromir stumbled, his breath ragged. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his tired legs to catch his breath. He saw Legolas standing a few paces away, the Elf still staring at the gate of Moria in disbelieving shock; at his feet were Frodo and Sam, both in tears. Merry and Pippin joined them, to hug both, expressing comfort in the closeness to each other.

 

Boromir did not need to hear their words – their expressions and tears spoke for themselves. The immediate loss of a comrade and a friend was always a shock to deal with but Aragorn would not allow them to rest. “Come nightfall these hills will be swarming with Orcs,” he said, a gesture asking Boromir to look out that they did not lose any of the Hobbits. For two hours they hurried on, until the valley lay behind them and they saw a forest edge ahead of them. Here, the Ranger stopped, allowing them to catch their breath and to take care of their injuries. It was necessary. None of the Hobbits were able to walk much further.

 

“Where now?” Kíli asked, bandaging up a fresh cut on his arm where an Orc arrow had grazed him. He wasted minimal time on cleaning the wound, allowing it to bleed openly for a bit before applying the actual dressing, relying on the Dwarven resistance to infection for the wound to not inflame.

 

Aragorn came over to help. “You performed the task Lord Elrond gave you well, Kíli,” he said. “We may have suffered a grave loss but you helped us to get out at all.”

 

The Dwarf frowned. “Such praise comes with a hook, does it, Aragorn?” he asked quietly.

 

“Your task ends here, Kíli. You were asked to aid us over the mountains. From here on it is best that you do not know where we are going or why. Our errand cannot – must not – be shared with anyone. You have my thanks for all you did. If you cross the river before nightfall you should be able to shake off the Orcs. They will go after us.”

 

“Aragorn, we could well use another warrior.” Boromir pointed out, surprised and angered that Thorongil would so easily sent a reliable friend away. “Things will get harder the farther we come south, and will not ease until we reach Minas Tirith. Another fighter should be a welcome addition.”

 

Boromir’s words caused a fierce stare from Gimli, who was squatted down beside Merry, helping the Hobbit to clean a cut in the side of his foot. Legolas made an Elven gesture of denial, or maybe simply indicating his disagreement in the quick wave of his hand.

 

The Dúnedain cast Boromir a calm, stern glance. “Our destination is not Minas Tirith, and with all that has happened, I doubt it would be wise to go anywhere near the White City. We will be safer choosing a path through the wilds.” His tone made clear he would not debate this issue.

 

Boromir knew an order when he heard one and bit back the impulse to argue. “Kíli, a word, please,” he said to the Dwarf.

 

Aragorn’s gaze followed the two companions as they walked off to talk unobserved by the others in the group. He could see Gimli frown and Legolas shake his head, none of the Hobbits paid attention. He sighed, his decision to send Kíli away was not one he had made easily. He did trust the dwarf, though Gandalf might have disagreed with that. He well remembered how Kíli had freed him from the deeps, along with the other captives, Yurár and Thirán. He would not be here today had Kíli not helped him escape the darkness of Moria, and yet his own trust was meaningless. Kíli did not know their task, and with him around the company would be unable to speak openly of their plans. That alone was enough to rip a group apart with perceived distrust. And the other reason was harder still – he was planning to take the group to Lothlorien, they’d find help there, Elrond had seen to that. But the Lord of Lothlorien bore little love for the dwarves and the events of Azanulbizar had only widened the gulf. Getting Gimli in would be difficult enough, but the grandson of King Thrór might prove too much for the Elves’ pride.

 

Boromir and Kíli walked a few steps away from the Company, far enough to be safely out of earshot without losing sight of them. “You have to return to your City, do you?” Kíli asked. “Gondor can’t spare their Captain indefinitely.”

 

He confirmed that with a curt nod. It had always been clear that he would have to do so. Boromir had assumed it would keep their paths together for most of the journey. “I will bring them as far as I can. But on the borders of Rohan I will have to leave them, if they insist on doing what Aragorn just said.”

 

“Alone across the plains and the White Mountains? That will not be an easy journey, especially with Isengard so close,” Kíli pointed out. Their eyes met and Boromir found the help he so greatly needed being offered to him. “Where shall I meet up with you?” Kíli simply asked.

 

Boromir wondered how Kíli was able to do that: know what others needed of him and then offer it without a second thought. The kind of compassion and friendship to do so was a rare thing indeed, to say nothing of the loyalty it took to offer to accompany someone, even if it was something of a friend, into a war-torn land. “There is an ancient lookout close to the Anduin waterfalls…”

 

“Amon Hen. I know the place of which you speak. I will camp in the ruins of the old overlook,” the Dwarf promised. “If you do not show up in a reasonable time, I will find you.”

 

TRB

 

Aragorn’s eyes followed the Dwarf’s lean figure as he vanished quickly into the shadows of the mountains again. The Ranger was sure Kíli could take care of himself. He gave a grateful nod to Boromir, who rejoined them. “Thank you; I hate arguing with him.”

 

The Steward’s son shrugged. “Sometimes a diversion is preferable to a confrontation.” He looked to the Hobbits. “Are they better?”

 

“Well enough to move on for a few more hours,” Aragorn replied. “By nightfall we should be safe.”

 

TRB

 

Entering the Elven kingdom of Lothlórien was very different from arriving in Rivendell, Boromir quickly found out. The Elven guard was not quite sure if they wished to welcome strangers or shoot them where they stood, and then there was the city itself… Rivendell, for all its Elven beauty, was something solidly tied to the roots of Arda. Lothlórien was like a dream, a place of otherworldly grace and ethereal beauty; something that might have existed when the world was younger, before the Shadow came. They were led to an audience with the Lady of the Golden Woods in her very halls. Boromir had never believed all the tales the riders of Rohan would tell of her, most of them less than friendly, nor did he take Gimli’s statement about the Elf-witch quite seriously, yet when Galadriel’s eyes touched his gaze, he felt she was looking right inside him, inside his mind.

 

_Again he stood at the crossroads of Ithilien, his army at his back, raising his sword to order them to advance, to storm the city, to drive the Shadow out of Minas Ithil._

 

Blinking hard, he fought against the vision intruding on his mind, the sweet promise of defeating the Shadow – the hope he must not believe. He tried to cast down his eyes, to avoid Galadriel’s piercing gaze, but he found he could not.

 

_He was fighting under the silvery lamps of Moria, side by side with Kíli and Dwalin, and Orcs fled their blades…_

_“Strange your dreams are, Boromir of Gondor,”_ the Lady’s voice whispered in his mind. _“Beware of them, for some may lead you astray.”_

 

He tried to shut out the clear and powerful voice of the Elven Queen, tried not to hear her words of hope, of not giving up. What did she know of the fading hopes of Men? He could not trust any whispers wandering his mind. But the unusually deep voice of the Lady went on, speaking of his father and of Gondor. Her whispers drew out the dreams again, the dark, twisted dreams of the Ring, pulled mercilessly out into the light by her, with Boromir powerless to prevent it. Her words touched the other dream too, but only fleetingly. When she finally took mercy on him and looked away, he felt like he’d been interrogated for hours.

 

TRB

 

These woods seemed endless and unchanging. Boromir could not perceive any hint of a difference when he walked them. Trees, grass and wells, strewn along windings paths all so similar it was easy to get lost in these woods. The white trees shone in the night and their branches roofed to wide domes, but he felt like he was in a maze without a means to chart his way out. “I will not sleep peacefully in this place,” he said as he walked away from the others, who were resting in the camp the Elves had provided for them by one of the many wellsprings.

 

His brisk stride barely concealed the anger he felt and could only direct at himself. Why had he even tried to speak of his fears and his hopes to Thorongil? Had the Ranger any idea how much Gondor’s hold on the borders was slipping, how desperate the last decades had been? Gondor had known no peace and little respite for most of Boromir’s life, and Thorongil did not – could not – see how much hope he could have given the war-besieged nation. Pained, he thought of his father, the old man in the White City. Denethor’s rule was failing. It had been for years, and Boromir had felt the hopes and responsibilities of his people on his shoulders from a very young age. Sometimes he wished that the Man who held a claim to the throne would actually take up the mantle and share the crushing weight before it overwhelmed and crushed the entire house of Stewards.

 

Boromir had been young when he had first perceived his father’s failing strength and resolve, when he had first seen Men turn to him, not his father, for hope and for answers – warriors ten years his senior – but they had turned to him, the eldest son of the Steward, for leadership. He had given all he could, thrown all his strength into the long war, and  fought with all the will and determination he had… but sometimes, in the long, lonely nights, he wondered how long he still could go on, how long he would be able to stem the tide, and he wished with all his heart that there would be something, a bright ray of hope for his people, someone who would be there to defend them against the dark hordes on the day that would inevitably come when Boromir’s strength or luck ran out and he fell.

 

Frustrated, Boromir lay down under a tree far enough away from the others to neither hear their voices and only barely see them. He would not move away beyond guard distance – it was bad discipline to leave a group and move out of sight – but he needed some space, some time to be alone. He was tired in mind and body, yet he dreaded sleep because the dreams would come again. No sooner had he settled down than sleep crept up on him, drawing him into the dark webs of dreams.

 

_A whirling wind swept ashes over the pass road. Flames rose to the skies, lighting the darkest night in their bright fire. Minas Morgul was burning, the dark walls broken apart by a terrible, bright flame. Boromir stood atop the high pass, arms crossed in front of his chest. He did not mourn the burning of Minas Ithil_ _’_ _s desecrated remains – the fire would cleanse the desecrated city, leaving nothing but ashes. A new citadel would be built here, a white citadel, with towering walls and watchful towers: a fortress that no enemy would raze again._

_Hasty steps approached him. He did not turn around. Gone were the days when he had to fear assassins at his back – there was no man in this army that would not die for him and deem it an honor. “My captain.” It was Veryan of Dol Amroth – once the youngest son of their house, then a banished man, and now one of Boromir_ _’_ _s most trusted officers. He had dropped to one knee, waiting to be acknowledged._

_The Captain turned around, gesturing him to rise. Veryan was injured, the cuirass with the engraved swan showing a deep dent; the left spaulder was cracked, probably by the same weapon, and there was blood trickling through the rings of the hauberk, marring the Swan Knight_ _’_ _s tabard. Still, his proud face did not betray any pain or weakness. “How stands the vanguard?” Boromir asked._

_“We have secured the plains of Udûn and the gates,” Veryan reported. “Half the legions have made it across the pass and into the positions we secured. By tomorrow we shall be ready to advance.”_

_“Only by tomorrow?” Hi_ _s voice sunk dangerously low. “I had expected more, especially of you.”_

_Veryan paled slightly, his blue eyes cast down, avoiding Boromir_ _’_ _s gaze. “It was my failing, Captain. I insisted on a slower passage through the pass to keep the troops from exhausting too quickly.”_

_“See that you have them ready to storm the tower by sunrise,” the Captain growled. “I do not wish to wait any longer.”_

_The Swan Knight bowed deeply and turned to leave. Boromir went after him, his armored hand reaching for Veryan_ _’_ _s shoulder. “Have that wound looked at first, Veryan,” he said in gentler tones. “I can_ _’_ _t have you die on me.”_

_On the armored hand, resting on the Swan Knight_ _’_ _s shoulder, the Ring burned brightly…_

Boromir woke shaking, more exhausted than he had been when he lay down. The Moon still shone low through the branches of the surrounding trees. He could not have slept more than two hours. Rising, he found a well and drank a few sips of the cool water. Those dreams… How could he resist them? Could he stop to believe in any kind of good outcome, could he stop to look forward, to allow himself to believe in any future for Gondor, to not allow the Enemy to use his hopes against him? How could a man give up all that made him go on every day? The hope to find a way to defeat Mordor, to one day having the strength to march across that accursed pass and crush the Shadow… it was what had kept him strong, when all other hopes seemed vague. Like all Men, he too needed hope, and he had kept hoping on finding a way, finding that strength to not just save his people, but to win this war, to spare another generation from having to fight like he had done since he was young. How… how could he let go of this hope? Was it possible to fight on hoping for nothing, expecting nothing? He could not imagine the emptiness.  He sat down beside the well, leaning his back against the stone basin. He felt watched, haunted, even here within these well-guarded borders. He took the axe from his side, and rested it over his knees, like he did on travels. It may offend the Elves, but it would make him feel better. Sleep came again on soft feet, carrying him away into the arms of restless dreams.

 

_“That’_ _ll send all the Orcs running home to Mount Gundabad.” Dwalin laughed uproariously. The old warrior was more than pleased with the outcome of the recent battle. Fighting their way through the halls and caverns had been a tough task, but the Orcs were leaderless and whatever they could mount as a resistance was not enough to deter the Dwarves. The bare-headed warrior grinned up at him. “You aren't half bad. We'll make a Dwarf of you yet!”_

_Boromir laughed. “I_ _’_ _d prefer to not be cut in half, Dwalin.” He sheathed his sword and followed the Dwarven war-leader through the freshly cleansed halls. The corpses had been removed and the dirt and grime they had left scrubbed away. These halls were looking like they had not been in centuries. “Where are we going?”_

_“The city proper,” Dwalin explained. “No one has been in there since Khazâd-dûm fell. Only Durin’_ _s blood may open these Gates. Moria is more than just mines and a maze of workshops.”_

_“Dwarrowdelf.” Boromir preferred the Man word to the Elven_ Moria _. Moria would always remind him of dark things, of the shadowy pit it described, home of the nameless horror of shadow and flame, but Dwarrowdelf… Dwarrowdelf was something else entirely: it was this sprawling underground city, a place of lights and lanterns,   a dream they were recapturing step by step. A place that would one day be the city of lights again. “I recall when I saw that place from afar, only for a moment, reflected in the light of a broken crystal lamp.”_

_“Aye, he mentioned that once,” Dwalin replied. They walked through halls where lamps had been relit or torches replaced them for the time being._

_In the grand circular hall, domed by a ceiling so high it was hardly visible in the firelights, Dwarven troops were still cleaning away Orc corpses. In the days to come, the population would follow the warriors in their advance and clean away the filth and rubbish the Goblins had left behind.   Boromir could well imagine what Brea daughter of Briga, the acting speaker of the populace, would say – it would involve water, sand, and scrubbing until the Orc stench never dared return to the halls of Kings._

_“Dwalin, Boromir.” Kíli, who had been speaking with the aforementioned Dwarf lady, turned and walked up to them. “I feared we had another Orc pocket on our hands when you did not come.”_

_Dwalin grinned. “They ran like rabbits. I had to find our Gondorian friend here first before meeting with you.” He gave Boromir an affectionate slap on the back._

_The three of them walked up to the huge stone wall north of the hall. When he stood before the seemingly empty wall, Kíli turned around to them. “We_ _’_ _re here, lad.” Dwalin_ _’_ _s voice held a wealth of warmth. After the long way he had gone with Kíli's family, this moment meant much to him. With Dwalin and Boromir at his side, Kíli spoke the secret words to open the forgotten gates of Dwarrowdelf._

“Boromir, Boromir, wake up!” A voice from afar called him back to the waking world. Tiredly, the Gondorian blinked, seeing it was Thorongil who had woken him. “Thorongil… what happened? Attack?” He pushed himself up, forcing the sleep back to wake up fully.

 

If the Ranger was irritated by Boromir’s use of that name, he did not show it. “No, there is no danger here. Merry found you – you were restless in your sleep, speaking of Dwarrowdelf.” The Dúnedain’s gaze softened. “We all have bad dreams of that place, Boromir. But Gandalf would not wish for us to break down in mourning.”

 

“Neither hopes nor dreams attend a wounded animal.” Boromir did not know why he had quoted one of his best friends at home. He should not have quoted Veryan, not after these dreams. The words invoked the memory of the Swan Knight: the way Veryan’s lips would quirk into a grim smile that usually accompanied such quotes or jabs of poetry. Veryan was the man with whom one could stand on the failing bridges of Osgiliath and hear him say something like that right in the moment when the message came that reinforcements would not come and then follow Boromir into the next desperate attack, making a dent into the Orc ranks that even Mordor would not account as expected losses. But now these memories invoked the dreams, and as Boromir had no doubt Veryan would follow him, even if he came back with the Ring, even if he had acquired it through…. No, he must not think of it, never again. He forced the picture of his friend from his mind, along with all thoughts of the shining gold bauble that held hope of victory. “Thorongil, has there ever been another attempt to retake Moria?” he asked to somehow distract himself, as he sat up straighter, slipping into the way he’d sit when taking second watch to one of his comrades. “One other than Balin’s, I mean?”

 

The Ranger sat down on the grass beside Boromir, thinking. “King Thrór tried to reclaim Moria,” he said after a moment. “He led an army of his people to Azanulbizar – that is what the Dwarves call Dimril Dale – by the Eastern Gate. It was maybe the greatest army that tried to retake the ancient kingdom since its fall. But they encountered legions of Orcs, led by the most infamous Orc to ever rise from Mount Gundabad: Azog the Defiler, a huge pale Orc that held sway over most of the Orcs and Goblins in the Misty Mountains. His unnumbered legions stood against the Dwarves when they marched into Azanulbizar.”

 

Boromir listened, enraptured, to the Ranger’s tale. He had never thought or believed that such masses of Orcs would live outside of Mordor, and while he had seen enough in Moria to know better now, the tale of a great battle against their kind had his undivided attention.

 

“The Dwarves stood outnumbered ten to one against the Orcs and they fought fiercely,” Thorongil went on, “but Azog was a cruel and sly creature, knowing that he had to break their leadership. He confronted and killed King Thrór, beheading him. He threw the King’s head at the Dwarven armies, to break their spirit. It worked… at first. Thrain son of Thrór broke under the strain, his mind fleeing the horrors he saw.” There was a hint of compassion in Thorongil’s voice as he spoke of Thrain’s failure, Boromir noticed. It was not the disdain of a fellow warrior, nor the scorn of a King… but the compassion of a healer seeing a being that had shouldered too much.

 

“The Dwarves were losing.” Thorongil looked directly at Boromir. “Their ranks were breaking, and they were leaderless. Until…” He paused, and the smile that shone in his eyes told Boromir that this was on purpose: this was the way a bard would pause to make an audience nervous. “Until Thorin son of Thrain confronted the pale Orc. He went alone against the beast that had slain his father and his brother Frérin, He stood alone, his armor torn by the long battle behind him, his shield smashed by Azog’s mace, using only an oaken branch to protect against the heavy blows raining down on him. He fell to the ground and the pale Orc moved in to destroy him like he had already destroyed his family, but Thorin grabbed his sword, he came to his feet, and his blade cut through Azog’s arm in one fell blow, causing him to lose hold of his weapon.

 

“The Orcs began to retreat into the gate of Moria, trying to recover their wounded leader. Thorin rallied the Dwarven army and they charged at them. With their spirits rekindled and the Orc leader wounded, the Orcs lost control of the battle, and were slaughtered. It was their greatest defeat since the fall of Angmar and their numbers were reduced greatly. The Dwarven victory gave peace to the lands on both sides of mountains for decades to come… but the Dwarves had lost so many of their people, their death toll so high, they could not continue their campaign. It is said that the flower of an entire generation fell in Azanulbizar.”

 

Boromir looked down, the story of the great battle touching him deeply. The sacrifice of so many, giving the plagues lands some time of peace. Again, he was astonished to find parallels between his own people and the Dwarves. As little as their great deeds had helped them, they had helped others. “Has Kíli any connection to that battle?”

 

“Kíli? No. He must have been but a child at the time. His uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, was there, of course, and King Thrór would have been his great-grandfather. I believe Kíli’s father, Dari, fell in that battle, fighting by Thorin’s side.” Aragorn looked at his comrade; he could tell that the tale of bravery, of great deeds in war, appealed to the Captain, whose own life had been dominated by war. Many soldiers were like that. “Meeting Kíli impressed you, did it not?”

 

“He is an impressive fighter,” Boromir answered. “I have rarely seen someone with the stubbornness and the courage to charge at a Nazgul, knowing he has no chance and still trying to protect his friends. I had not thought he was of a high Dwarven House, but now that I do, I think I should have seen it – he has this air about him…”

 

“You should have seen his uncle.” Thorongil leaned back against the tree he was sitting under, hands resting beside him on the soft grass as he stretched his long legs to sit more comfortably – and a rare smile lit up his drawn features. “I was a mere boy when Thorin Oakenshield and his companions came to Rivendell. During the night, I snuck out to see them. I had never seen Dwarves before. Thorin was impressive, cold, aloof – like one of the old Dwarven kings of legend. A warrior. Kíli and his brother were with him; they were young, too, barely adults by Dwarven reckoning.”

 

Settling back against the stone basin, Boromir listened to Aragorn telling him of the past, glad to allow his mind to be distracted from dark memories and restless dreams.


	10. The Price of the Ring

** Chapter 9: The Price of the Ring **

 

Leaving Lothlórien came as more of a relief than Boromir wished to show. The Elves had allowed them to heal, to rest and enjoy some safety, yet he never felt safe inside their enchanted borders. He knew that their stay inside the Golden Wood had also allowed them to wait out the worst weather. The Anduin valley was rarely cold for long and what little snow came in winter should be passed by now. Of course, there had been discussions on how to continue their journey. It had quickly become clear that the others were set against going to Gondor, instead favoring a path across the wilds to enter Mordor from a less guarded side. There was little doubt in Boromir’s mind that this was a bad plan, but they had been adamant on that point.

 

A little contention had arisen when Aragorn mentioned that at least one of them should go with Boromir to Gondor; that no one should travel alone. None of the others had wished to join him, though he had seen Merry and Pippin looking uneasily at him when they had stated they would not leave Frodo. They had spent considerably more time with him, practicing their skill with the sword and he had done what he could to look out for them, still he understood their loyalty to Frodo who stood closely with them and gave him a sad look. Boromir managed to give the young Hobbit a small smile, Frodo was the one who did not need to feel bad about this, he had the burden to bear… the Ring. And Boromir considered again to go with Frodo, to make sure the Ring was safe. But… he could not leave Faramir to handle the full defense of Gondor for who knew how long. Not with the armies the East was mustering.

 

Gimli and Legolas had voiced their wish to not go with Boromir in little words and he had expected nothing else. Both had held their distance to him since the day on the pass and he could do well without this Dwarf’s company anyway. That left Thorongil, who would be needed to guide Frodo through the wilds. Boromir knew there was little in terms of choice here.

 

“I should be able to do fine on my own until I meet the first patrols of Rohan, once we are downriver,” he ended their discussion. “I have travelled all the way north alone, this will not be any different.”

 

Inwardly, Boromir was glad: he knew that he would not be alone once he left the Company, which would be upon the Falls of Rauros. He had not shared that fact with the others. He could not quite say why but he hoarded the knowledge that a friend was awaiting him downriver like a treasure, like Frodo hoarded the Ring he carried around his neck and was not sharing either.

 

The boats the Elves gave them were a most thoughtful aid, sparing the Halflings the long, weary marches on the cold riverbanks. Boromir knew it was twenty days’ worth of marches to follow the river to Falls, and the grounds were rough at best. For several grey days, they followed the Anduin, Boromir felt it was seven or eight days, but he lost count after one bitterly cold and restless night on a sandbank amidst the rushing waters. Winter had fled the land but spring was reluctant to grace the northern vale of the great river and once the wind turned to fall from the icy mountains it still held the chill of the passing winter. For the first few nights, Boromir’s dreams had been troubled, but the dreams were short and he had evaded them by simply sleeping less. Often he would rise from his nightmares and relieve whoever was at watch to stand guard over his comrades until dawn came. On the sixth evening of their journey, he was so exhausted that the others noticed.

 

Despite their aversion to the cold, Merry and Pippin hurriedly jumped from the boat to help push the boat ashore. They both had resolved to help their comrade better, as they noticed the weariness creep more and more into Boromir’s drawn features and the perpetual shadows under his eyes. “You need to rest, Boromir,” Merry said when they set up camp. The Halfling stepped from one foot to the other nervously, unsure if he should meddle with the big warrior like this. “I mean, I love to sleep through the night and not to have stand watch but you need to rest too.” He had already conspired with Pippin and spoken to Strider, who had decided that Boromir should not have a watch hour this night so he could get some rest.

 

Boromir shook his head. “That’s very honorable of you, Merry, but I can take the watches. You little ones need to conserve your strength; for once we reach Rauros you will have to cross the wilds on foot. I’d rather have you all well rested and ready for that march.” His eyes went to Frodo, who sat with Sam on the other side of the fire. Frodo looked paler and more tired than he had this morning or the day before.

 

“Merry is right,” Thorongil interjected. The Ranger was busy with tossing some roots into the stew pot. “You have hardly slept the last few nights, Boromir, and while I do not doubt the strength of Gondor’s soldiers, I do doubt you can take much more. A good night’s sleep will help you to recover. The river passage ahead of us is dangerous and I need you sharp and alert when we enter it.”

 

“The river is going to be even worse?” Frodo asked, tensing, his shoulders slumping, his whole posture crumbling.

 

Boromir left the debate with Thorongil; he by now knew the way the Ranger gave orders and though he disliked it, he had learned when to follow orders and not undermine a leader by gross displays of disobedience. Instead, he walked to the other side of the fire, squatting down beside Frodo. “Are you all right? You look ill…”

 

Sam shot Boromir a glare. “Hobbits and boats don’t mix, Mister Boromir. It’s an unnatural way of travelling, if you ask me.” His entire posture tensed when he spoke of the vessels that had aided their journey downriver.

 

“Your boat is safe, Sam,” Boromir pointed out, seeing the Halfling was truly afraid of the water, if the tense demeanour had not given it away, the voice would have. It might be funny in a way, but Boromir never made fun of his comrades’ fears, not when he could try to calm them. “Thorongil… Strider… is a Ranger, they are good in handling boats. I should know – my brother is one of their kind.”

 

“You have a brother?” Sam asked, interested, his head perking up. “I think this is the first time you spoke of your family, outside of your father… beggin’ your pardon.”

 

“Faramir is my younger brother,” Boromir replied, settling down with them, relaxing against the trunk of an ancient tree. “He is a Ranger in Ithilien, swift with a bow and always able to sneak up on me. He holds command of Gondor’s armies in my stead until I return.”

 

“You are worried for him,” Frodo observed.

 

“Aye.” Boromir stared at the fire, seeing the crackling flames reflect on Thorongil’s face, Faramir would be so excited to know that he had met the heir of Isildur. Quickly he looked back to Frodo. “When I left we had just retaken Osgiliath, and I doubt the Enemy will wait long to retaliate. Faramir… he is a wonderful brother and good fighter, a better soldier than he gives himself credit for… but he hates being a warrior, he was not born for this… and I hate knowing him out there, facing the Shadow…”

 

Frodo’s small hand touched Boromir’s sword calloused fist. “You want to protect him, like you want to protect your people,” he said softly. “You always worry for them… If they are like you, they will hold out until they have you back.”

 

“I know Veryan will have Fari’s back, and Thoroniâr will whip Minas Tirith into full war shape…” Veryan’s name evoked the dreams again, drawing Boromir’s glance more intensely to Frodo. The Halfling nearly jumped at his gaze, and the warrior quickly amended his mistake. “And now you have distracted me from why you feel so bad on the boats, Frodo. If you’d rather be on another boat, we could ask Merry and Pippin to switch. I dare say Aragorn could put up with their chatter for a day or two.”

 

“No.” Frodo shook his head. “It is not who guides the boat, Boromir…” He wrapped his arms around his knees protectively. “My parents drowned in a boating accident on Brandywine River… Sometimes when the boats skip and jump they remind me too much…”

 

“Boromir!” Gimli called, having come close. “Can you take a look at your boat? I don’t think it’s firmly ashore.”

 

The warrior rose, following Gimli’s words to check on the boat. He did not expect to find anything amiss and cast a frown at the Dwarf. It seemed that whenever he was in a longer conversation with Frodo, Gimli or sometimes even the Elf would interrupt it. He shrugged; their trust was not something he was striving for. He returned to camp and lay down to rest, as Thorongil had insisted he did.

 

Exhausted that he was, Boromir fell asleep the moment he had lain down on the cold ground. But the sleep brought dreams, creeping from the shadows like monsters.

 

_The Plateau of Gorgoroth was ablaze with fire and battle. Orc legions had poured down from Lithlad in one last attempt to stop Men’s advance into the Land of Shadow. Standing upon a high hill, Boromir watched the battle unfold. His troops were making strong progress, beating the enemy back further and further – as well they should. The great Captain did not hold with fools or cowards. This army was the best the world of Men had ever mustered and it was slicing the Shadow like a ray of light would part the clouds._

_What still stood of the Orc center was amassed at the very bridges of Barad-Dûr. Boromir saw how his legions split apart: Veryan – trusted, capable Veryan – led the center attack, while Thoroniâr and Beregond respectively took command of the wings, moving the legions to flank the enemy to encircle them again. The fighting at the center was vicious – Barad-Dûr was pouring out its remaining Elite troops. Of the Nazgul, the three still left to Sauron were in the field; the others Boromir had ripped apart in Minas Morgul._

_He could clearly see the Nazgul taking command of the center, closing the Orc ranks. With the Nazgul the faltering formation became strong again, his will and presence driving the Orcs into a frenzy. Their counterattack was terrible, cutting through Veryan's troops like a hailstorm through the ears, pushing them back from the bridge. Veryan and a core of hardened fighters held it together, but the Nazgul was flaying them. The Captain sighed. He could not leave Veryan to that. Or rather, he could, but it would mean the death of the Man. Boromir still held some lingering affection for the valiant Swan Knight – he reveled in the devotion he saw in the other Man’s eyes, and he relied on his absolute loyalty. Veryan would be the first permitted to swear fealty to the new king, once this was all over._

_Boromir drew Truefire, the Ring aglow like flame on his gauntlet. He did not call for any troops or personal guard: he did not need these petty trappings of weak kings. Without anyone supporting him, he cut through the enemy ranks effortlessly: Orcs and Harad-men fell before him, crushed by the trusty axe in his hands, a true blade that could cut through steel and stone, a true friend’s gift. He reached the center of the battle to see Veryan had actually managed to regain a foothold on Barad-Dûr’s very bridge. He smiled; the Swan Knight rarely failed him, and he sometimes managed to surprise. There he was: on the very bridge, fighting a Nazgul, not giving ground with a fierce courage that made Boromir all the more proud. This was the strength of Men, the shining beacon of light that would end a darkness neither Elves nor Valar had cared to destroy._

_He saw Veryan duck under the attack of the Nazgul, but the next strike swept him off his feet. The Swan Knight stumbled; on his knees, he parried the next attack, the Morgul blade sliding off his heavy gauntlet. Boromir rushed the bridge, effortlessly cleaning away the few Orcs still daring to hold out. He slipped past the faltering Veryan and, with one fierce strike, flung the Nazgul blade into the chasm under the bridge. A second strike destroyed the creature entirely, a golden band falling from the ghostly appearance to clatter on the dull grey stone of the bridge, flaring gold shining on dead grounds. Boromir picked it up and slipped it with the other six Rings in the pouch on his belt._

_Extending a hand, he grabbed Veryan’s arm and helped him up. “That was brave… and could have killed you. I told you not to die on me.”_

_“I do my best, my Lord.” Veryan stood shakily, blood smearing his armor, a gash on his throat the lightest of his wounds, but he stood at once again, ready to fight._

_“It’s Captain – I told you to leave those pretentious titles to old men and doddering fools,” Boromir chided him. It was something he had to remind them of a lot, lately. He saw Veryan’s smile, the adoration in the blue eyes, and felt a warmth rise inside him. They’d follow him to the very end of the world. In that moment, Boromir decided that Veryan would be the one to wear the Ring of the Witch-king once this battle was over._

 

In the morning, Boromir woke even more exhausted then the evening before. He felt like his whole body had been pummelled through a battle; he found no appetite to eat even a bite of the tasty breakfast Sam had prepared, and he hardly noticed the glances the others cast him. Had he been speaking in his sleep or just tossing restlessly during the night? Why had they not woken him then? They had done so before. When he met Legolas’ gaze, the Elf turned away to speak to Thorongil, and Gimli, still chewing on the last of the roasted food, shot a distrustful glare his way.

 

Boromir’s heart sank, feeling the deepening distance. They knew his weakness. Shame welled up inside him. He was failing them. He was failing Frodo. He looked for the Halfling, who sat beside the Ranger, and met his eyes with such a worried expression that it cut right into Boromir’s soul. He rose swiftly. “Merry, Pippin, come on, we don’t have all day,” He chased up his two Hobbits, sending them to the boat. Pippin stuffed his last crumbs into his mouth and Merry made a face as he lifted up his pack, but they did not argue. Small favors indeed. He pushed the boat off the shore and out on the river.

 

While steering the boat downriver, Boromir pondered what to do. What _could_ he do? One day and a night he told himself – he had to hold out for that long. They were approaching Rauros Falls. From there, they’d go their separate ways. He could hold out that long. Once he had seen them well on their way, he would meet up with Kíli and go on, preferring to be remembered as the one who left the Quest than the one who became a traitor. The very idea of betrayal made Boromir feel sick; he had despised those who would not keep their word all his life, and he could not bear the thought of falling to the same vice, becoming a traitor, an oathbreaker… It was something worse than death. But still… the thoughts haunted his mind and the whispers continued…

 

_The tower was an appalling maze of spiky stairwells and twisting hallways that led nowhere, an abomination that only a sorcerer’s twisted mind could think up. Followed by Veryan, Thoroniâr, and Beregond, he approached the throne hall of the tower. Here it would end. The night would end._

_The heavy black steel doors adorned with blood runes were guarded by the last of the Nazgul and what few Orcs remained. None of Boromir’s men hesitated. “For the Lord of the Morning!” It was Thoroniâr who had minted that battle-cry. It had quickly taken hold with the legions, and while Boromir often reminded his troops of not calling him_ Lord _, he was secretly pleased with the title. He charged ahead, Truefire in his hands, right at the two black figures awaiting them. In another time their fear had ruled the hearts of Men, but they had grown beyond that and would never again cower from the shadows. A Morgul Blade came down on him. He blocked the attack with the axe, barely feeling the cold seep into his arms as he broke free and brought Truefire’s silver blade down on the black armor. The blade sliced through the black hauberk like it was butter and Boromir felt the churning heat in his sword hand as the Ring burned brighter, scorching away what was left of the ghost, leaving only ash behind. Boromir whirled around and at the very last of the Nine, Khamûl, at once time the feared Emperor of the Easterling Empire and now the last of an abomination that would end here. Their weapons clashed, and even now Boromir had to admit that this Nazgul was something of a skilled fighter, but ultimately he was no match for him. One thrust of the axe shaft against the midriff and then he brought the blade about, beheading the last of the Nazgul. With one fell blow the Nine were ended forever. Their fear might have ruled over Men for the best part of an age but now they were broken. They had been pathetic. As pathetic as the kings that they once had been. Sauron’s judgment in strength for his Ringbearers had been as appalling as everything else in his reign._

_The gates opened and Boromir faced the Shadow. Fire hailed came down like a scorching wave, a fiery whip lashing at them, but he stood, and his faithful stood with him. The Ring burned in golden light as Boromir’s blade sliced the Shadow, destroying what was left of the Dark Lord. The Shadow fell with a last shriek of a fell voice that would not be heard again in this Age of the world._

_Still breathing hard, feeling the fight had taken more out of him than he had though, and so relieved that it was over, that they finally were free, he turned around to find Veryan, Thoroniâr, and Beregond, who had kept Sauron’s guard at bay, but the Easterling guard had now retreated to the walls, shocked by the fall of their Master. Veryan bent down and picked something up. When he approached Boromir, the other two followed behind. Two steps from Boromir, who stood on the stairs of the Obsidian Throne, Veryan stopped and dropped to one knee, presenting the black crown of Sauron to his Lord…_

Boromir jerked awake by a heavier movement of the boat. He found he no longer held an oar. Merry stood behind him, balancing on the boat’s narrow sides, and was using the oar to steer. “Don’t worry, Boromir,” he said with a grin. “I can steer a boat – I am a Brandybuck, you know. I must have done this dozens of times on Brandywine River.”

 

“No, I should not have fallen asleep.” He took the oar and helped Merry return to the middle of the boat. He then brought them up with the other two boats in a few powerful strokes, wishing his dreams could be left behind so easily. This day and maybe the night, he reminded himself. Maybe he should leave the camp this night already.

 

“Look!” Pippin pointed forward, where two gigantic stone statues stood high above the waters. Two mighty, towering figures standing guard at the narrow passage of the mighty river, their hands extended North in a warning gesture that sent a shiver down Boromir’s spine. Whom did they warn away? Attackers? Enemies? Or the unfaithful? Their stern gazes seemed to touch him as he steered the boat closer into their shadow. Their faces were made in semblance of the Kings of old, he was a little surprised to detect a true resemblance to Thorongil in their faces, he truly had the noble features of the silent stone Kings. He looked at their faces, and he found no scorn in their expression, but watchfulness and… trust. These pillars had not been erected as a warning against someone, but as a beacon of hope, in a time when the vast wilderness of Middle-earth must have been strange to the new arrivals from sunken Numenór.

 

It was a strange thought for Boromir, for he felt less connected to an island long swallowed by the angry waves but to this land, to this Middle-earth, with all its flaws and shadows. And while he knew that Elendil and Isildur’s landing had brought a ray of light to this world, they had come as strangers, as conquerors. Never before had he wondered that if he had lived in their time… would he have been with them, or opposed them? Still, it was with great relief Boromir stared up at those stone kings, not for what they depicted or what they meant in the history of his people. It meant he had nearly done it. A little more only a few short hours longer and he’d have made it without becoming a traitor to anyone.

 

They could already hear the waterfalls and see the white foam rush rise from the edge of the falling waters. The river widened here to form a calmer lake before plunging into the deeps of the crushing waters. They landed the boats on the riverbank, careful to avoid the strong pull that led to the waterfalls, dragging them up to hide them beneath the low-hanging branches of the dense weeping willows lining both sides of the river. “We’ll cross the lake after nightfall,” Aragorn told the others. “There we will hide the boats for good and continue on foot.”

 

”Oh, yes?” Gimli grumbled sarcastically, “It's just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil – an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better! A festering, stinking marshlands, far as the eye can see!”

  
“That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf,” the Ranger told him.

 

Boromir was almost amused at their bickering as he pulled the boat deeply into the shadow of the willow branches sweeping the water. He looked at them from the shadow of the same branches hiding him. They had not even noticed he was lagging behind, busy with their camp and conversations. There was a strange detachment between them, or maybe it had always been there, maybe he had never truly belonged to them, just gone with them because it was the only thing to do. He seemed also to be the only one who spotted Frodo trailing about on the outermost fringes of the camp, as if not quite sure if he should vanish into the forest. It would not do for the Halfling to go astray.

 

Boromir shouldered his pack and grabbed Truefire, the heavy axe feeling good in his hands as he headed off into the forest.

 

Aragorn had continued the debate with Gimli. The Dwarf was flustered by the suggestion he take some rest and denying it loudly to Merry and Pippin. The two small Halflings were already settling at the fire. He turned to look for Boromir, who should have come with them from the boats. If their friend was truly set on leaving them here, he best say it now. A part of Aragorn hoped the Gondorian would reconsider his decision – Boromir was a strong man and a powerful fighter; on the other hand, he had behaved strangely these last days and that worried him. But as Aragorn quickly surveyed the camp, he did not spot the Gondorian anywhere, nor his pack and weapons. He was gone.

 

TRB

 

Frodo had seen Boromir take off right after the boats had been secured, while the others were bickering about the path ahead of them. The Gondorian Captain had taken his pack and weapons and walked away into the woods. His behavior deeply troubled the Hobbit, because it did not seem to fit the proud warrior he had gotten to know on this journey. Boromir was not a Man to just slink away into the night – he would say his goodbyes and wish them well, that much Frodo was sure of. Yet he had noticed a certain… aloofness the others sometimes displayed to the Gondorian Captain ever since the incident on the pass. He was not entirely sure of it; there had been moments when he found the dynamics between his comrades very had to read.

 

Strider and Boromir seemed to be comrades one moment and uneasy allies the next, to be adversaries on the verge of arguing only a day after. Frodo had the impression they had declared a kind of an armistice during the long night of Moria, but Boromir had been frustrated with the decision to send Kíli away. Sometimes he had perceived those rifts stronger, especially between Gimli and Boromir. But had it gone so far to drive him off without a word? Even with the fears the others harbored about Boromir, he deserved better than that. His strength and courage had carried them through many dangers – he was a loyal friend and should not feel he had to leave into the night without a word.

 

Quickly, Frodo set down his pack with the others and slipped away on soft feet, following where he had seen Boromir vanish into the woods. While Frodo was in no way a tracker, he had the keen eyes and quick senses of his people, thus finding it not so hard to follow Boromir’s way up the hill and deeper into the woods. He could neither see nor hear Boromir move through the forest, but soon discovered a set of overgrown, moss-stained stairs leading towards a ruined overlook. A ring of stone arches, remains of tower long shattered, still surrounded a circle of cracked old flagstones.

 

Frodo raced up the stairs that led to the broken tower and, to his surprise, found himself in a small, well hidden camp. A bedroll lay on one side of the circle under the most solid wall still standing. Beside it leaned a pack, and beside the ashes in the fire pit sat a black battered iron teapot. The patterns once wrought into the dark iron had been stained by ashes and battered by too much field use, but Frodo had seen such work before in Bilbo’s home in Bag End. It was Dwarven make, beyond a shadow of a doubt. His eyes darted about; there were few ashes in the fire-pit, but the stones of the pit had been set cleanly and were scorched by days of flames shining. Dwarven fire! He had seen that before, during the visits of Bilbo’s friends when Frodo had been young and new to Bag End. He remembered the Dwarven warrior who had been sitting by the fire for a few icy winter nights, reading or playing his harp, the fire never burning out. Had a Dwarf been camping here?

 

“You should not sneak around where you are not invited.” Boromir’s voice had Frodo nearly jump so suddenly was he ripped out of his reveries. The Hobbit turned around and saw the Captain had arrived just after him. “Few people like strangers wandering into their camps.”

 

“That would be true for you too – we should tell the others that someone his here,” he replied, taking a step towards his comrade; Boromir may have startled him, having approached so silently, and still having that axe in his hand, but he was still glad to have found him.

 

“No.” Boromir put down his pack. “It won’t be necessary. By nightfall Aragorn will have you all on the other side of the river. This is nothing that concerns him.”

 

“So you know who is camping here!” Frodo exclaimed, realising that Boromir had come straight to this camp. He must have known it was here in the first place. “You are meeting someone here. Why are you keeping it secret?” The thought that Boromir would not be alone on his journey home was a good one. Kíli! Frodo suddenly realised Boromir had befriended the Dwarven warrior and… could Kíli have reached this place on foot and alone before them?

 

“Secret? You would know about secrets best, wouldn't you, Halfling?” Boromir’s pose shifted: he had put his pack down along with the weapon, and now crossed his arms in front of his broad chest. His voice had deepened and his gaze was intensely directed at Frodo.

 

Remembering the warning Boromir had given him weeks ago, Frodo retreated, his back hitting the pillar holding one of the last arches standing of the tower. He peered past it into the forest. He could try to dart away yet he knew he could never outrun the tall Man. “Let me go, Boromir,” he said softly. “I know you can… you are stronger than you think. I only wished to say goodbye to you.”

 

“Did you?” Boromir stepped closer. “You of all people should not stray into these woods. There is something else creeping along these shores and you wandered off alone. Do you not see the risks you take?”

 

Frodo moved away from the pillar and into the archway, ready to flee. Boromir had told him to run, if the Shadow ever came for him again and… his eyes… they were so angry and pained. Frodo found he could not move, transfixed by the glance of the green eyes.

 

“You carry something you have no right to. If anyone has a right to it, it is Men, not Halflings or Elves.” Boromir spat, advancing towards him. All of sudden, Frodo felt a hand on his shoulder, and then someone was pushing him aside, standing between him and Boromir.

 

“You will not harm him,” Kíli said firmly. The Dwarf stood on the stairs of the arch between Frodo and Boromir. He was still shorter than the towering warrior but the way he had raised his arms and spread his feet, he was already in a fighting stance. Dark eyes searched Boromir’s face, hoping for a recognition that was not there.

 

Boromir’s eyes flashed in anger and his noble feature contorted in rage. “Do not interfere, Dwarf,” he spat. “You may have resigned yourself to be a king in rags on the road, but I will not see my people fall like yours did.” Frodo had moved away a few steps but he could see Kíli’s face and there was a moment of hurt in his eyes before an impassive mask settled on his face, hiding his feelings, moments before Boromir tried to push the Dwarven warrior out of the way, but Kíli managed to grasp both of the Gondorian’s wrists, his hands strong as the tongs in a forge. Horrified, Frodo watched both fighters, unable to run away or even move.

 

“I will not let you,” Kíli said, his voice firm and stern. The Dwarf had locked away the hurt at the words his friend had hurled at him. He could not allow them to get to him. Not with the maddened craze he could see so clearly in the Man’s green eyes. “Boromir, it is not you speaking. You hear it call; you feel the curse reach for you. I have seen that before.”

 

Boromir tried to break free, cursing, but the Dwarf was much stronger than he had ever thought. His gaze found Frodo and with a scream of sheer rage, he pulled at the steely grip that locked his arms. Standing taller than the Dwarf, he brought leverage to the struggle, bearing down on his opponent as hard as he could, his rage willing to break this imprudent Dwarf who knew little of Men and their plight. With his mighty strength, he did not break the grip but leaned on it, forcing the Dwarf to his knees.

 

Kíli’s knees hit the stone stairs, he had not relinquished his hold on the warrior’s wrists, but the sheer strength of the Gondorian pushed him down. He panted, their struggle eating at his strength. Changing tactics, he stopped fighting the force used against him and simply remained kneeling, looking up at his opponent. Deep, dark eyes found Boromir’s gaze, holding it. “Thorin, he fell under the spell of the Dragon’s gold. Driven by greed and fear, he became a shadow of himself.” Kíli spoke softly, the words hesitant to come out; he had never spoken of those final days at Erebor, of the nightmare that preceded the battle to the death. “It came to him, like it does to you… in whispers, in echoes, until he believed the accursed gold was all he cared about, all that mattered…”

 

The deep, soft voice echoed through the haze of Boromir’s rage. Maybe it was the strange timbre that always belonged to the Dwarf’s speech, maybe it was the musical accent that made it stand out so much, but for a moment he was the stronger one, and even in the height of his anger he would not hit or kill a man on his knees before him. “Then he was weak…” he spat. “Like so many in this world. Too weak to gain what he truly wanted.”

 

The words cut into Kíli, evoking painful memories, and pains he had never shared. Thorin, his uncle, who had been father, mentor, friend and King to him… taken by the spell of gold, his eyes darkening until they only shone in the light of the gold. The slap across his face for not supporting him against Bilbo… “I had to stand by and watch him slip away, day by day, until only the curse remained, and when he broke free, all that remained for him was death in battle,” Kíli whispered, his voice shaking. The hill before the gates, the blood fields – it all came back to him in a crushing wave. His brother… smashed by Azog’s mace, Thorin dying in a deathly embrace with the pale Orc, having finally conquered the foe that had haunted him for so long. The wounded hand, grabbing Kíli’s own. _I failed you… forgive me. I failed you so horribly, I led you to death…_ Tears stung Kíli’s eyes, the memory breaking its way into his mind, bringing back Thorin’s final words. He had kissed the bloodied hand and told Thorin he had not failed them, but led them home, only to see the Dwarven King’s eyes had broken and Kíli had leapt to his feet and fought the Orcs, standing over the body of his King, willing to stand and fight until they cut him down too. “Death. Death. Death.” The words broke out of Kíli’s throat, hoarse and raw, full of pain and fierce will to still not give in. “That was all that remained. He died bravely, atoning for his weakness… He was hacked to pieces by Orcs, his breaking eyes not seeing victory, only darkness. Do you want to end like that?”

 

Frodo had put a hand over his mouth, to stifle a noise rising in his throat. The struggle of the two warriors had moved from a physical contest to a battle of wills, and he could see that Kíli’s words reached Boromir: the Gondorian’s face lost the fierce rage, the clouding anger clearing away, becoming again the man Frodo called a friend.

 

“No.” Boromir’s voice was hoarse, as though he too was struggling against the tears. “No… I will not end like that. I will not break my word. Never.” He pulled Kíli up. “I… I am sorry…” The apology was meant for the Dwarf only, for what had just transpired between them.

 

Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew you were stronger than that,” he said softly. He was not sure what had shaken him more: the close call with Boromir or the pained recollection Kíli had shared with them. Bilbo’s tale had been sad when it came to the death of Thorin but it had never grasped the pain it held for Thorin’s surviving sister-son.

 

Boromir hardly heard the words of vindication, of forgiveness – his eyes went past his friends to the other side of the ruin. Orcs, unusually tall Orcs, marked by the white hand of Saruman, had appeared there and were advancing towards them, fanning out with weapons drawn. “Frodo, run.” Boromir drew his sword. “Run and don’t look back.”

 

With Kíli by his side, the Captain of Gondor charged into battle. Behind him, he knew Frodo was racing towards the river. They needed to buy him – buy them all – time.

 

TRB

 

Frodo ran downhill towards the water, he felt small and useless in this moment. His friends were fighting an overwhelming number of Orcs and he was running. Maybe it was because of what had been said back on the hill that he suddenly feared that they too would soon lie dead amongst the host of Orcs they had slain. He heard the sounds of fierce fighting behind him and to either side.

 

When he reached the shoreline, he was only found by Sam, the stout Hobbit running towards him. “Master Frodo, I was so worried. There’s Orcs everywhere, the others went to fight them off, told me to hide here. Where were you?”

 

Frodo peered through the trees and he could see more Orcs, a whole host of them move through the forest, and for a moment he could see Legolas and Gimli, attacking them. More friends fighting, and possibly dying. His heart became heavy, knowing what he had to do.

 

“Grab your pack, Sam. Quick! Bring it to the boat,” he said, getting his own pack from the camp, glad he had not unpacked anything yet.

 

“But Master Frodo… what about the others?” Sam asked, even as he obeyed Frodo’s command. “We can’t leave them like that, can we?”

 

A black arrow shot past them, hitting a tree, but the Orc that had fired it was cut down by Gimli’s axe. “Sam!” Frodo said more fiercely than he had ever felt. “Our friends are out there fighting, laying down their lives so we may get away… to allow the Ring to escape this trap. They will die… and if we fail, they die in vain.” It hurt to say it, but he knew his obligation. He would not see all their courage having been for nothing. He headed towards the boat, letting Sam get in. This time Frodo did not think of his fears or of his dead parents when he entered the craft. When he pushed off the shore, he thought of Strider, whom he had not seen; of Legolas and Gimli, giving the Orcs a fight they would not easily forget. He thought of Boromir and Kíli… whom he had left behind. He prayed to the silent stars that they may have mercy on his friends as he steered the boat towards the dark eastern shores of Anduin.

 

TRB

 

The fight was brutal from the very beginning. The Orcs of Isengard were taller and stronger than their mountain-bred brethren, and they had numbers on their side. Kíli and Boromir kept their ground in the middle of the ruin, even though it was a tough battle. Kíli was capable of covering a wide area of ground, fighting in an aggressive style that toed the line of wild. Wielding his blade in his right hand and a blazing torch in the left, he was a storm of power as he leapt and whirled and spun, always in swift motion, always in attack, always hacking, stabbing and slashing, piling the corpses of Orcs on the ground. Boromir had his hands full taking on all the Orcs who thought they could circle round the battle-frenzied Dwarf. And, by the fathers of Gondor, this was necessary. Kíli seemed not to care much about his back, or about the opponents who slipped by him. Or perhaps he just trusted Boromir to guard his back closely.

 

When the Orcs eventually broke off, the ground around the two fighters was littered with stinking, dark carcasses. Trying to catch his breath, Boromir leaned on his blade, startled to hear the strangest sound of all – Kíli was laughing, his deep voice echoing past the running Orcs. Boromir turned towards the Dwarven warrior, who stood as he had fought: his sword in one hand and a torch in the other. His bright eyes blazed like fires as he raised his torch towards Boromir in a gesture of victory.

 

The moment of hope was short-lived. Boromir saw the movement amongst the trees. “More come.”

 

“Good, you did not think they would run out of their favourite foot fighters yet?” Kíli replied, his eyes shining with a fierce will. He had transformed his pain into a weapon and he would fight and make them pay a dear price for finally killing him.

 

More Orcs came, from both sides of the ruin this time. The woods must be been crawling with them. Boromir closed ranks with Kíli, ready to fight. The Ring was leaving. It had left scars on Boromir’s soul, but now the whispers were retreating, for the Ring was moving away and he could not reach it any more. Tormenting as the whispers might be, he could no longer do anything about them. The decision had been made and he was relieved for it. He would stand. Frodo needed him to hold out and thus the Captain of Gondor would stand.


	11. Or die trying

** Chapter 10: … or die trying **

****

Uruk-hai swarmed the woods of Amon Hen. They had split up into several companies, each of them going after one desired target. “Kill all save the Halflings” were their orders, and their overwhelming numbers would enable them to kill anything that had chosen the ill time to hide in these forests. The main bulk of their force was focused on the ruins uphill, where their scouts had seen the Halfling. But that report quickly proved faulty, for instead of a smallish creature they found two well armed fighters up there, who fought with a skill and determination that cost many of the Orcs their lives and tied up more of their troops than they might have liked.

 

At first, the Orcs attacked in small groups, trying to flank and separate the two defenders, but quickly learned that the two warriors fought too well together to be easily split up. In the next wave, their groups got larger, attempting force where tactics had failed. The third wave had archers to back them up; however, most of them were picked off their vantage points by the Dwarf, who handled his bow like he was one of the treacherous Elf-kind. The very few arrows that got through mostly dented the defender’s armor but did not much more. By the time the seventh wave was storming the ruin, the piles of their own dead created obstacles for Orcs. But the Uruk-hai were cunning: they had the vile skills of their mountain-bred brethren and the greater strength. While some of them fought the two stubborn defenders, others crept under the ruin, into what was left of the cellars.

 

No tools or laborers could break these walls apart quickly – they had been built as the base of a fortress in the days when the Kingdom of Men had still been young and Middle-earth had been a dark and dangerous place to the arriving exiles. But the Orcs did not need tools, nor did they use common work to do their destruction. Long had they found other means to harm their enemies. Three of the Orcs dragged stone casks into the cellar, quickly smearing the sticky black mass inside into the cracks of the stone and on the floor. When they retreated, the last dropped a torch on the dark mass.

 

The ground shook and, with a horrible sound, the ruin broke apart. A searing flame shot from the ground, the walls were blown away, and parts of the cellars caved in as the other walls tumbled downhill in an avalanche of stone and earth. Trees creaked and cracked under the force of the explosion, branches were ripped loose and fell into the tumbling chaos rolling downhill. Kíli, reacting with the natural reflex of all Dwarves who lived with the dangers of cave-ins and mine collapses, jumped out of the first collapse zone—he rolled over the hard ground and landed in a mass of Orcs when more rubble came loose. Boromir reacted slower: the underground explosion threw him the other way, and an avalanche of mud and stone carried him down the hill and into the forest.

 

When Boromir got to his feet, he was bruised and battered but still alive. He had to push himself free of the heavy mud and stones that formed a doughy mass that still was slowly slithering further downhill. Using the hold of tree, he stood, his head still spinning from the rapid fall downhill and the impact. Unfortunately, he was not alone. The Uruk-hai were close by: they fought less than twenty paces way, their shouts and jeers ringing through the cold afternoon air. For now they focused on another target, sending their fighters against Strider, whom they had cornered on the slopes of the forest. The Ranger fought a valiant battle against overwhelming numbers, trying to protect Merry and Pippin. The two Halflings stood with their backs to him, trying their best to keep the Orcs off him. Seeing the little ones putting his lessons to such good use made Boromir smile. They did so well, using their smaller stature to great effect, going for the knees and legs of the Orcs first and then killing them when they came down. Thorongil had the harder fight to handle, as the mass of the Orcs were focused on him. So far he was holding out, but Boromir saw one tall Uruk-hai draw his bow with a wicked smile, intending to shoot the Man who dared to stand in the face of Isengard.

 

Like a brush of hot wind whispering from afar, Boromir again felt the whispering, twisting voice of the Ring in his mind. The wordless pictures that flooded with the promises of safety. He needed to let Aragorn fight his own battle, nothing more than that – it was no betrayal, as he easily had enough foes to fight still. He only would have to _trust_ the Ranger to handle himself well, something very simple indeed. Give Aragorn the _respect_ he had felt the Man silently demand and rely on him to know what he was doing. Such an insignificant thing now that he thought about it: just give him what he had wished and there would be no King of Gondor – no Man to claim the empty throne, and Gondor would be free of the shadow the empty throne had cast on the land. He would not have to do anything, no betrayal, no broken word… just treating Thorongil as the man had wanted, as the great captain and soldier he had once aspired to be.

 

A sick feeling spread in Boromir’s stomach, and he felt bile rise in his throat, disgusted with himself that he would even consider leaving a comrade behind. “No,” he spat. “I will not do the Enemy’s work.” He’d not deprive Gondor of hope, of a King who might save it, no matter how much the thought hurt Boromir’s own pride. He dropped his shattered sword and took up Truefire as he charged at the Uruk that was only so few paces away, knocking the arrow out of its path; it missed Aragorn, hissing past him and by chance hitting one of the Uruk-hai instead.

 

With an angry snarl, Lurtz whirled around and dropped the bow, his crude blade in his hand he attacked the Man who had dared to tackle him.

 

Boromir blocked the opening attacks, ducking under one to make the huge Orc overextend his reach. From the corner of his eye he could see Aragorn, who had killed the last of his attackers and turned to face the one Merry and Pippin were fighting. “Thorongil!” Boromir snapped, “Kâr dai nurdeé.” His own Adunaic was rusty at best; Boromir had never bothered with dead languages and hated that his father insisted he learn. He actually remembered more from Faramir’s patient explanations, and his grammar was probably off. But while he was sure that the Orcs would not understand a word of the ancient tongue of Numenór, he knew that the Elf-raised Ranger probably was fluent. “I sent Frodo back to the boats; find him quickly – I’ll hold them off!” He did not get out much more, not with the huge Orc tackling him, but he saw Aragorn had understood, because the Ranger grabbed the two Halflings, pushing them further downhill towards the river. That accomplished, Boromir focused fully on his opponent.

 

It was the strongest Orc Boromir had ever faced; not even Mordor’s Elite were this powerful. Boromir went at him aggressively, Truefire coming down in deadly crescents, each hit battering away the thick armor, cutting into the Uruk-hai’s flesh. Black blood smeared the steel axe blade. When the Uruk stumbled, Boromir swung Truefire with both hands, beheading the terrible creature. He did not stop or pause, going for the next of them, cutting them down.

 

Howling in rage, more Orcs swarmed the Man who had slain their leader. Boromir stood his ground, back to a tree. He did not see their numbers, nor did he know how many he had killed. His heart was beyond feeling, beyond dread. He hardly felt the wounds he received. He had denied them another prey; they would not slay a king here, and that was a victory.

 

TRB

 

Aragorn pushed through the ranks of the Orcs, trying to clear a path for the two Hobbits with him. Without Boromir’s brave interference, he’d not be standing anymore. He knew that and it felt like a strange irony. Only a few short hours ago, he had considered the Man a threat to their quest, and their time with the Fellowship had warred between cautious camaraderie and rivalry. He knew he bore the ire of the Gondorian warrior – that much had been revealed in some of their clashes – and it seemed all the more ironic that it had been Boromir of all people who had saved him. And at such a price no less, he could do nothing to help the brave Captain, who bore the brunt of the Orc’s rage, for he too was barely was able to fend off the Uruk-hai. He could hear the screams and shouts of the Orcs back behind him – they were still rushing the place where Boromir stood. He could not see them but their voices bespoke numbers no fighter could hope to survive. No matter how brave, no matter how skilled.

 

There was a deep sadness in that thought, in the idea that a warrior such as Boromir should die a meaningless death in a fight far from his homeland. Maybe only now Aragorn realized how much he had tried to gain the other warrior’s respect, had hoped to win his friendship. But even Boromir’s final brave stand to save him was not an act of either friendship or respect, but of the simple stubborn loyalty he had granted all his comrades, no matter how deeply disliked.

 

Another group of Uruk-hai came at them, their war-shrieks piercing even the riots of clashing steel and the groans of the dying. Aragorn whirled into attack, his blade cutting through them, but he heard screams behind himself. Stabbing another Orc, he turned, seeing that the Uruk-hai had grabbed Merry and Pippin and were carrying them off. They left behind a dozen of their number, who moved between Aragorn and the retreating troop, making sure he would not be able to follow them.

 

It was thus that Gimli and Legolas found him: still fighting against the last of the retreating Uruk-hai. Both friends were marked by the fierce battle in the woods, the Dwarf much more so than the Elf. Gimli’s armor was rent, his axe marred with scratches and blood, and even Legolas looked unusually disheveled and blood stained his clothes, though it was all black Orc blood.

 

“Aragorn, are you injured?” Legolas reached the Ranger’s side first, almost casually shooting the two last Orcs still standing.

 

“Only lightly,” Aragorn panted. “Merry and Pippin, they were captured.” His eyes followed the trail of the Uruk’s leading south.

 

“They were marked by the White Hand,” Gimli pointed out. “Saruman. That Wizard is worse than a treacherous Dragon. Aragorn, we need to rescue the Halflings.”

 

Mutely, Aragorn nodded. He leaned back against a tree, the pain of his tired body rising inside him, along with the heavy realization how much he had failed. Boromir had laid down his life to allow the little ones, as he had called them, to escape, and Aragorn had not managed to protect them. He closed his eyes, only for a moment, trying to find the strength to speak, to tell the others.

 

Legolas’ hand touched his arm. “What happened?” the Elf asked, his keen senses picking up much more of Aragorn’s inner turmoil than he may have wished to show.

 

Slowly Aragorn pushed away from the tree and sheathed his gory sword. “We need to find our friends first, Gimli,” he said, reminding the Dwarf that there were more to their group than just the two they knew were captives. “Boromir saved me during the fight and he said he had sent Frodo back to the river. I have not seen Sam since the fighting began.” It was a painful thought, but ascertaining the Ringbearer’s fate had to take priority over searching for their wounded comrade or rescuing the Halflings. It was a thought Aragorn disliked, he hated thinking that if he headed back right here and now he might reach Boromir before it was too late, that he might be able to still heal him before he succumbed to wounds and exhaustion. But he could not – he had to delay, to consciously sacrifice one of their number, because the Ringbearer came first. And he knew that Boromir would not have it any other way, for the Gondorian had always put the mission ahead of himself, or anyone else for that matter.

 

They headed back to the landing, which was eerily quiet and frighteningly untouched by the presence of the Orcs. There were nearly no tracks of them there, and the few that Aragorn spotted in the sand had been running Orcs quickly heading back to the fighting; they had paid the camp no heed.

 

Two boats were still resting on the shore; the third was missing and as Aragorn looked around, he saw two packs were missing from their camp as well.

 

Thoughtfully, Aragorn viewed the traces on the ground. Hobbits had remarkably light feet but in the loose sands of the shore their steps were easily to find. Frodo in particular had a lighter and more slender foot, while Sam’s tracks were the deepest of all four Haflings. “Frodo was running from something – from what I do not know,” he said, his eyes following the tracks that went directly to where the third boat had been hidden under the branches of the willow.

 

Frodo and Boromir had both left the camp prior to the attack, and this was a thought that worried Aragorn. He had seen how Boromir had reacted to the Ring on the Pass; he had heard him toss in the sleep during the nights, whispering of the Ring, sometimes shouting battle commands. There had been a darkness settling on the Steward’s son, who had more and more sought Frodo’s company nevertheless.

 

These thoughts made Aragorn feel ashamed. He had heard what Boromir had shouted to him, and while the man’s Adunaic had enough mistakes that Elladan would have ordered him to copy an entire tome of Adunaic phrases, the message had been clear. _Vángril ar ti mari Frodo._ The meaning was clear and unmistakable: Boromir had sent – ordered – Frodo to leave, and while Aragorn had deeply doubted the warrior, he knew the son of Gondor had not been a liar, though something had deeply troubled him. The short glance they had exchanged had revealed pain, disgust, and self-loathing in those green eyes, and Aragorn wondered about the source. Yet… no, he could not condemn the man for something that was only a guess – he would not listen to the shadows of his own doubts.

 

Rising, he followed the tracks to the shore. Frodo and Sam had stowed their packs into the boat and left, going on alone. Aragorn’s eyes strayed out over the cold waters. The Sun was slowly sinking – the afternoon was coming to an end. If they left now they could reach Frodo probably, before he could head deeper into the Emyn Muil.

 

The Ranger bowed his head, while his mind wished to pursue this path, his heart knew different. He had obligations still on this side of the shore. He had to find Boromir and find out what had happened to him, and they had to rescue Merry and Pippin. From here on out Frodo was on his own.

 

TRB

 

Finding Boromir proved more difficult than reading Frodo’s fleeing tracks. The Orcs had not yet fully left the woods and the friends had to confront several pockets of them while they searched the hillside where Aragorn had last seen Boromir. They found the hollow under the oak trees where the Gondorian Captain had slain the Orc leader. Many dead Orcs were piled around the tree; the ground was stomped and muddy from their black blood. But there was no sign of Boromir at the scene, only dead Orcs.

 

“A mighty battle he fought.” Gimli surveyed the scene, taking in the numbers that lay dead on the dirty grounds. “Worthy of song.”

 

“I’d rather find him.” Aragorn bent down, trying to make any sense of the tracks, but in the mess of Orc corpses, fallen weapons, and the deep tracks their ironclad feet had made, it was all but impossible to read anything from the torn earth, soaked with blood and trampled by so many different feet.

 

“His sword.” Legolas picked up the hilt of Boromir’s sword. The blade had shattered, a shard of it still attached to the hilt. Where the other pieces may lie, no one could guess. “He’d never leave that behind,” the Elf observed, his eyes studying the blood-encrusted hilt with a strange expression.

 

“There.” Gimli pointed uphill; the observant eyes of the Dwarf had spotted the broken stones of the overlook. He scrambled uphill, finding the destroyed ruin and more corpses. “He fought like a hero, but where did he go? Or did they take him too?”

 

Aragorn’s face turned ashen at the very thought, and he flinched, drawing his arms closer to his chest. It was a frightful thought indeed. No matter how things between him and Boromir stood, the Steward’s son would be too great a price for Saruman to claim. The White Wizard already held power with Denethor of Gondor, and the old Steward would do anything to save his beloved son. If Saruman had Boromir, he might even force Gondor to switch sides in the war. “We need to free them,” he said, his voice pitched. “The Ring… has passed beyond our reach. But we cannot give up our friends to torture and captivity.”

 

Neither Dwarf nor Elf had any words against his decision. They raced down to the landing site and grabbed their packs, in a hurry to take up the chase. Leaving last, Legolas glanced back at the riverbank. His fine Elven senses told him that there was something he had overlooked, but at Aragon’s call he headed on and joined his friends as they set out to rescue their Hobbits.

 

TRB

 

Kíli retreated from the hilltop to draw the Orcs he had collided with after the explosion after him. Their fight in the shadow of the broken ruin was a short but tough one, with the Dwarf throwing all his strength into overcoming them swiftly. There were no new Orcs to come after him; they did not care for his existence beyond the disruption he was for their plans. And these plans proceeded elsewhere, if their leaving him alone was any indicator.

 

Once he was clear of them, Kíli returned to the woods to search for Boromir. The sounds of fierce battle in the woods gave him directions where to go, but when he came to the den under the oaks, he could only see dead Orcs. The snarling call of a crow made him look up. A battered storm-crow was sitting on a branch above him, cawing at him. He understood only half its words but still enough.

 

“I thank thee,” he said in the tongue of the Ravens, quickly racing down the hill towards the water. A quarter of a league downriver he saw them – five Orcs, one limping with an Elven arrow through his upper leg, two struggling to drag a semi-conscious but still struggling Man with them, while the other two covered them. They too showed injuries, blood smearing their armor, and one of them held his shoulder in a twisted way, like it was hurting. They were not of the White Hand – their helmets were marked with the Red Eye. Kíli scowled. Sauron and Saruman: a dragon and a serpent, both dangerous and both vile. The world was a sorry place for having to contend with both.

 

He moved to the side, using the high bushes near the shoreline to flank them. The best way to take them was from the angle they did not expect: the river. The one with the arrow in the leg was weakened already. If Kíli moved fast enough, the surprise should be enough to gain him (an/the) advantage.

 

The Orcs were clearly trying to get away unnoticed and meet with their troop, was most likely waiting for them on the other shore, and they were not prepared for another attack. And while they stood five to one, they had not counted on Boromir getting up again to fight. The Gondorian was wounded, bleeding and dazed from a hit to the head, but he was not out yet. But when the last of the five Orcs fell, the Captain all but collapsed against a tree.

 

“Boromir.” Kíli knelt down behind his friend. It took no second glance to see that Boromir had been severely injured. He was bleeding badly: several Orc weapons had hacked through his chainmail. “We need to stop that bleeding or it will be your death.” For a moment, another battlefield stood before Kíli’s eyes: Balin… wounded beyond rescue, his armor torn, his body bleeding from wounds, so many wounds. He pushed the memories away, not allowing them to gain strength.

 

The wounded Man was hardly in any shape to argue, but he felt himself slipping away more and more as Kíli did what he could to at least stop the bleeding. “Kíli...” Boromir coughed. He felt so cold; even the pain seemed to dull. “You need to help the others. Thorongil… Gondor will need him. If I don’t come back…”

 

He clasped Boromir’s hand. “Listen, my friend, you _will_ come home. You _will_ fight for your beloved city again. By the blood of Durin, I swear I will bring you home.” Or die trying. Kíli could see how he was getting weaker; Kíli could feel the cold creep too quickly into the hand he still held, and he heard the breath of the man becoming painful and irregular. The shadows were creeping from the darkness descending on the river and they were reaching for his friend.

 

Friend. Kíli may have known Boromir only for such a short time, but the warrior had truly become a friend to him, and the Dwarf’s soul felt as sore and rent as his body at having to see yet another friend die. The hand closed stronger around his, the fingers cold as ice, drawing Kíli back to the bitter day when he had clasped his uncle’s dying hand on the battlefield outside Erebor, knowing his brother was already dead at the foot of that terrible hill.

 

He ducked his head, tears stinging his eyes, some of them touching Boromir’s coldening fingers; they twitched slightly as the hot tears touched them. “No tears, friend.” Boromir’s voice was strained. “Do not mourn… we all fall into the night in the end.”

 

Kíli looked up. How Boromir was aware in spite of his wounds was beyond him – he could only admire the stubborn will to fight: he certainly could rival a Dwarf’s tenaciousness. In the failing light of dusk their eyes met and Kíli had never seen someone calmer, meeting the end. “I will not give up on you, Boromir, not yet.What we need is time,” the Dwarf whispered.

 

Carefully, he drew his sword, the hilt shimmering white in the darkness that was quickly sinking on the river. When Kíli had received the Dragon’s tooth from Bard, he had not known what to do with it, but, remembering the Elven sword his uncle had wielded, he decided to make it into a sword hilt, only to discover that no small amount of Smaug’s magic remained in the material. It took nearly twenty years, and journeying to some lonely, far off places to meet those who could teach him, until Kíli had acquired the skills and knowledge to shape the powers of the material according to his will. And some of the runes and spells crafted into the weapon were untried or dangerous. One he had learned from a one-handed arcane smith he had met high up north, beyond the reaches of Carn Dum. _One day,_ the red-haired smith had said, _you will stand on a field of blood and wish for one who is dying to live. And then you will recall what I showed you to carve into that Dragon_ _’_ _s tooth. It will take a price from you, make no mistake. No Man, or Elf, I knew has dared to make use of it twice. But knowing you like I do now, I think you have the heart for it, Dwarf._ And now that time had come. Balin had been too far gone by the time Kíli had reached him, and his mother had died alone in a dark winter night, with her son a thousand miles away.

 

Carefully, Kíli put the white hilt into Boromir’s hands. “You will hold onto this sword, and you will not let go, Captain, until I tell you otherwise.” It was an order, one that bore no discussions.

 

Boromir understood the words, even if their sense was lost on him, and he obeyed the order. “Aye,” he said softly, his voice weak but he was not yet gone. His hands closed around the warm hilt, and he felt a bit of warmth seeping back into him.

 

Kíli put his strong, calloused hands above Boromir’s and he began to whisper the words the one-handed one had taught him. Runes shone in the hilt, waking from the depth of the Dragon’s fang, their light cold and terrible but beautiful to behold. A surge of pain rose from where his hands touched Boromir’s, racing through him, bleeding into his entire being, his whole body wracked not only with the same pain Boromir bore, but with something deeper, like life itself was being ripped from him and into the blade. And then the dark came: a cool, soothing emptiness that stretched under the earth and beyond the stars. Kíli gasped, trying to hold on. A spark rose in the darkness: a fire, a forge… a huge forge, like none he had ever seen, the stars moving outside the forge in the darkness and the fire glowing out into the night like the forge itself was the place where all that was was wrought. The powerful figure at the anvil put down the hammer and turned around, looking at him. Fear and awe warred in Kíli’s chest, even as the single glance of the great smith might smite him to pieces and leave nothing but dust. And yet, he could not look away; he was unable to hide nor would he want to. The great smith, the father of his people, looked down on him and shook his head, much like a master would about the antics of an unruly apprentice. There was no anger in his eyes, nor wrath, but an infinite warmth. Kíli’s heart leapt with awe and joy as he realized that as much as they might be stepchildren of the world, they had a home… They had one to whom they all belonged.

 

He awoke in the dark by the riverbank. Darkness had fallen completely and the stars were out. He must have been passed out for more than an hour. Boromir was deeply asleep, and while his wounds were not fully healed, he was much better, not bleeding any more, most of the wounds closed or scrapped over. He was healing.

 

Barely able to move his weary bones, Kíli got up and checked their surroundings. Silence had fallen on the woods. The Orcs had moved off in the hour that had passed and night had fallen. He used Boromir’s Elven cloak to hide the sleeping warrior, and then went to search what had happened to the others. But he found no traces of them; they had left, either not finding or not searching for the Gondorian warrior.

 

Carefully, Kíli approached the landing site. He found two boats and a few discarded things: a bedroll had been left behind, some rations and a kettle, but nothing else. The camp had been packed up in a hurry and Boromir’s comrades had truly left. The boats gave him an idea. He inspected them and chose the larger one, packing the remaining oars inside before bringing it down to the place near the water where he had hidden Boromir. The warrior was still asleep and Kíli somehow knew that he would not wake this night. Making use of the blankets and the Elven cloak, the Dwarf moved the wounded Captain into the boat, carefully securing their packs in the boat so they would not come loose. He even discarded his own armor and boots, securing them at the bottom of the boat as well. He had to trust the Elven craftsmanship to do what he was trying now. But it was the best, if not only, way to get out of here before the Orcs could return.

 

Clad in only his tunic and breeches, Kíli knelt down in the stern of the boat, taking one oar and steering it out on the river… and towards the waterfalls. He could hear the hollow roar of the waters in the darkness, and the moon cast white light on the foaming rim. The abyss beyond that rim was a black shadow. Quickly, they gained speed; the Dwarf was careful to angle the boat towards the middle rush, where the water would be deepest above the rocks. The rushing waters grabbed the boat and tossed them down into the deeps. The first step they made with minimal damage but at the second step, the falling waters doused Kíli in an icy flood, their impact clenching his muscles and pushing him from the boat as they hit the waterline again. He tried to grab the boat’s side but his hand only grasped empty air, moments before a whirl pulled him under.

 

Icy water embraced Kíli’s body, sinking its teeth into his skin like a winter morning in the north. The chill so quickly ate into his cramping muscles that he shuddered as his body fought against the muscles locking up. It was very dark down here; his eyes could not pierce the water entirely but beyond a blurred veil, he perceived the boat, sailing rapidly but upright on the surface. Exerting all his strength into swimming, Kíli fought his way through the whirling nightmare that tried to drown him. He reached the surface for a scarce moment, gasping for air, filling his lungs before the merciless whirl of the waters drew him under again and he was tossed deep into the dark waters, an endless blackness swallowing him up. He could not see anything but the black flood around him, except colored specks dancing in his vision and a blur of movement that was the water itself. Like a piece of obsidian before the sun. He had to marshal all his willpower to conquer the panic blossoming in his soul when the water pressed down on him. Nevertheless, he swam even faster, forcing his tired muscles to move. He had to escape this damned, dark pool.

 

A painful burning erupted from his chest and slowly extended towards his head. Kíli swam as fast as he could, his strong arms stemming against the icy flood, each move towards the surface painful, each a battle to not give in to the cold and the burning in his lungs, the icy water chilling his whole body to the point that made moving a supreme effort of will.

 

Like a shadow out of dark water, he followed the boat as they were tossed over the last ledge and into more deeps below. The water was whirling here like a gullet and pulled him down between narrow rocks, nearly trapping him under the stones. The rocks were very narrow, pressing so close they often hindered his fast movements. Trapped between the narrow rocks and dark waters, Kíli struggled, his chest aching, a dull throbbing spreading through his head. If he only could breathe. He barely managed to slip through the sharp edged rocks: they grazed his legs as he pushed away to swim upward. The burning in his lungs turned into a painful, hammering staccato. Somewhere between the shadows of the black waters, a light glittered beyond the dark pit. The wish to breathe became almost unbearable as he approached the faint light of the surface with what was left of his strength. The light was greying out, and pulling his arms beside his body to force himself up became an impossibly slow and painful effort. A long knife seemed to slice through his lungs as he slipped beneath the last rock barrier and saw the light above drawing close. Barely suppressing a pained scream, Kíli broke through the surface of the water. His breath was rattling in his chest and he had to force himself to breathe slowly.

 

As the boat drifted gently along the water’s surface, Kíli slowly swam over and grabbed the stern of the boat, gaining a measure of control over the craft. The Elven miracle had made it across the waterfalls, not only without capsizing, but also without taking water or losing any of its precious load. Leaning his head against the rough wood, Kíli felt exhaustion wash over him. His body was chilled and aching, he felt every cut and bruise from the battle, and the terrible exhaustion from the spell like a leaden weight in his bones. From somewhere – he did not know where – he heard an amused yet ancient voice whisper: _I am he that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water._ It reminded him of another half-drowned journey, of arriving in Lake-town after the long and cold ride in the apple barrel, and suddenly Kíli laughed, his exhausted body shaking with mirth when he remembered being pulled from the barrel in Lake-town. He had not felt so alive in a long, long time, not since before the Battle of Five Armies. As swiftly as his waning strength would permit, he swam towards the shore, guiding the boat towards a riverbank. They both needed to rest to recover from what had transpired. The waterfalls lay behind them and the river could carry them back to Gondor after some well-deserved sleep.


	12. The river flows away

** Chapter 11: The river flows away **

****

The last rays of the waning moon’s light shone on the river in the grey hour just before dawn when Kíli had guided the boat into the murky delta of the Entwash. He his muscles were sore and his arms hurt each time he used the oar, but this was the first decent place to hide he had found. Pushing the boat into the mud of one of the many tight channels of the delta, he felt the soft impact as it sat on the slick mud.

 

All around them grew high reeds and thick bushes, a few drooping willows stretched their dark branches over the waters. Under one of them Kíli made camp, moving Boromir to rest on the blankets on the soft ground beside the tree. The warrior had not woken when he had been moved from the boat. It was the first chance for Kíli to treat the healing wounds, luckily most of them had truly closed, scrapped over or even scarring already.

 

From his pack he retrieved a small bundle holding a few vials and pots, Elrohir had given him these before he had left Rivendell. If the elves send one on a dangerous task, they usually were generous in providing the means to survive it. Kíli had saved these up for dire situations. It was also sheer luck it had been autumn, Paleberrys and Autumn Dreamers only grew late in the year, and their salve would speed up the healing of the wounds even further. Once done with Boromir the dwarf examined his own wounds, a lot were bruises, he was grateful for Aelin’s chainmail armor, for it had held a lot of damage at bay. He cleaned the cuts he had received and then packed the vials away again.

 

There was little in terms of dry wood at hand, but he gathered it up along with some driftwood, setting it aflame took a little more strength than usual, because he was tired, but calling for the fire had long become a second nature to him. The wood was not strictly necessary but that way the dwarven fire would bun even if he fell asleep or lost focus.

 

The morning came and the Sun rose high above the river. There was some of the first fleeting warmth in her rays, not enough to call it spring but adequate to remind the world that neither cold nor winter were perpetual. Kíli had allowed himself to doze off during the early morning hours, but it was more of a nap than real sleep, as he woke at the slightest noise.

 

Around noon, Boromir began to toss in his sleep, his hands clenching into the sand beside his blanket. He nearly rose to snap an order at someone that was not there only to sink back and whisper hoarsely of dreams, of nightmares. Kíli rose to sit down beside him. “Veryan… we need to take that bridge..” Boromir’s voice was rough, his powerful frame shaking caught in a dream that he could not escape. There was little Kíli could do about the nightmares; he had neither dreambane nor whiteroot at hand to brew a concoction that could alleviate evil dreams, nor was he sure that the bitter brew would even be helpful

 

“The fight is over,” he said softly. “we won, we drove the Orcs away,” he could immediately see the effect his voice had, as Boromir stilled, the shaking becoming less pronounced. Kíli kept on talking to him and after a while the Gondorian slipped back into a deep slumber.

 

Kíli remained sitting beside him, in the vague warmth of the afternoon sun he dozed off again, the sleep never deep, waking up whenever Boromir got restless or an unfamiliar noise drew close, but it was better than nothing.

 

As night fell, Kíli was still tired, but not as bone weary as he had been. He pushed himself up and packed up their camp, bidding the fire to be still and burn out. Gently he moved Boromir back to the boat, carefully bedding him on the blankets. The Dwarf sat down on the boat’s stern again and pushed off from shore, leaving their hideout. Under the cover of the night, there was less of a chance to be spotted.

 

The clouds mercifully veiled the moon and the wind whispering in the barren trees helped to hide the sounds of the oar on the water. For two hours the boat glided downriver in silence. Kíli used the oar to steer them, letting the strong drift of the water provide the strength he still lacked. Thze nightly river with the barren, wintery banks actually brought a smile to the dwarf’s face, how often had he wandered into a new spring, feeling the cold wind embrace him?

 

“The Bridge… Faramir… we need to hold that bridge…” Boromir’s voice was tense, laden with exhaustion and strained. The boat shook slightly when he began to turn and toss in the throes of another nightmare. For a moment Kíli considered setting them ashore again and allowing Boromir to rest until he was over the worst weakness. But he decided against it. If there were still Orcs hunting for them it was smarter to keep moving under the night and hide during the day. Pushing the oar more firmly into the water, Kíli began to hum a tune, it was a song of his childhood, the tale of the wanderer.

 

Who wanders adrift,

across the lone land?

A stranger came in the night,

passed through here swift

before the night's end

was gone before first light.

 

The night was cold,

the day turns pale,

the road ahead is far,

No one was told,

where he was from,

he followed the Winterstar.

 

The words came by themselves, a soft whisper accompanying the familiar tune. It did not fail to calm the sleeping man.

 

Who wanders woodlands,

across the dark glade?

A stranger came from the fen,

across the dry sands,

and by the woods shade,

we did not see him again.

 

The dawn came late,

the skies turn dark,

the stranger might go far,

and shadows wait,

beside his road,

beware of the Morningstar.

 

Who wanders alone,

who walks the long road,

A warrior without a name,

A stranger unknown,

follows the lost road

I don't know whence he came.

 

And long ago,

he passed away,

the road may bear him far....

 

Throughout the night as they travelled Kíli kept singing songs, dwarven ballads of mines and treasures, of battles and wars, of revenge and love and of the never-ending journey of his people.

 

By morning, they were past the Entwash and Kíli hid the boat on the southern river shore again. This time it was a small landing under deep reaches of a number of weeping willows. Although tired, he found some wood to light a Dwarven fire; they both needed to eat and some stew would be good for his healing comrade. Boromir had been semi-awake when Kíli made camp but drifted off to sleep again. Kíli could only assume that Boromir's unnatural deep and long slumber was an effect of the healing. He did not know for sure, even as he felt the effects that using the spell had wrought on himself. The exhaustion was slowly fading, as did the weariness, but there was something deeper, a cold and distance from life that was only now waning. He had too deeply inside himself and left his very life bleed out of his soul, and it had left him with a dull nagging ache inside his heart, though he was sure that would pass too. 

 

TRB

 

Boromir’s sleep was heavy, a leaden blanket weighing him down and keeping him under the sway of grey unconsciousness. He felt warm, like lying beside a fire as its heat kept him safe as he rested. Sometimes the pain in his chest and sides, a fierce burning in his shoulders and shield arm would bring him back to the surface of sleep from the depths of the welcomed oblivion and dreams would intrude on his slumber. But someone was there in the darkness standing guard, for whenever the dreams began a voice would chase them off – a deep baritone voice, humming foreign songs, and Boromir would drift off into dreamless sleep again. Eventually, the sleep receded and he realized that the voice was real. He did not understand a word of the song but he knew the tune: it was a ballad that was a favorite in war-camps.

 

_Under the weeping willow tree_

_My heart shall be buried beside thee,_

_Under the very willow tree_

_Where my warrior promised_

_His heart to me…_

 

Boromir groaned, blinking awake, finding the fire as real as it had been in his dreams. He saw movement at the edge of his vision as someone approached him. “Boromir! Mahal be praised, you are awake!” a familiar voice said.

 

He pushed himself up to sit, his muscles were stiff and his entire body protested against the sudden movement, if there was any bone in his body not hurting he’d have known. “Kíli?” He realized why the voice singing in his dreams had been so familiar, why he had felt instantly safe, the dwarven lilt with the deep baritone had told him he was with a friend.

 

“Aye. Worry echoed clearly in the Dwarve’s voice. “I began to worry when you did not wake.”

 

Boromir raised his arm, reaching for his neck, his shoulders were worse than stiff, they seemed locked from having lain down too long. “How long was I asleep?” he asked, taking in their surroundings, but seeing little beyond the riverbank and trees hiding their camp.

 

“Nearly two days and nights,” Kíli’s gaze was still worried, dark eyes searching Boromir’s face, like he was fearing he’d pass out again. “How are you feeling?”

 

The question directed Boromir’s attention toward his own shape. Gingerly he touched his shoulder, where he felt a dull pain, but instead of finding a crusted cut or smashed collarbone, he only found the trace of a clean dressing with a nearly healed cut underneath, the huge gashes in his sides and chest were similarly well healed as was the deep stab-wound, he moved his hand, remembering vividly how the wrist had burned and cracked under an Orc club, but he could move the hand with ease and nearly free of pain. It seemed next to impossible after the fight. “Well enough, surprising as that is. What happened? The last I remember is you finding me after…” It all came back to him: Amon Hen, Frodo, and the Orcs. “The others… did they make it? Kíli, what happened to them?”

 

“I can’t say for certain,” Kíli replied returning to the fire where a small cauldron hung over the flames. “By the time I found you, they were gone. I did not find any trace of them at your landing, except that they had come to collect their packs. I do not know where they went.” It was not the answer Boromir had expected, and he was surprised that Kíli would not have searched more deeply for them, to ascertain their fate. Nevertheless, Kíli had never lied to him nor claimed things he did not know for sure, so his answer, admitting that he did not know in absolute certainty, was the most honest one probably could give.

 

“But they went by themselves,” Boromir led go of a deep breath, letting his head fall back. “those are good news.” He closed his eyes, allowing himself the quiet gratitude that he did not have to hear news of their death in the gruesome fight at Amon Hen. “You… you did not find any of them dead, did you?” he asked, the tightness in his chest not quite gone yet, he wanted to know… not just hear… that they had made it. That in spite of the terrible odds the others had escaped.

 

Kíli quickly averted his gaze, to not give away his emotions. For the fact that they had left him behind, Boromir worried a lot for his comrades and the dwarf was not sure they deserved it. No matter what their errand was they had left one of their number behind after what could only have been a superficial search. Frodo had been surprised to find Kíli’s camp at the overlook and the dwarf concluded Boromir had not told his friends about Kíli’s presence at Amon Hen. So they had not known Boromir might have other help and still not deigned to spare one of their people to ascertain their comrades’ fate, in Kíli’s eyes that was something inexcusable, something that deserved scorn. “No I found a lot of dead Orcs, but none of your companions. They returned to your camp to get their packs and then left. Wherever they went I cannot say, but they left on their own volition.” Kíli answered to the best of his knowledge. There had been many tracks at the landing, but the boots of Gimli, the faint tracks of the Elf and the tracks of Aragorn had been clear in the sand. They had come, packed up their camp in a hurry and headed off.

 

“Good. They have to get on with the mission.” The Gondorian Captain crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave the dwarf a curt nod. Kíli looked to the side towards the river, his long hair falling over his shoulder, obscuring his face. “You saved my life there, Kíli,” he spoke up. “And after what I said to you back at the overlook…”

 

“You were struggling to fight off a spell,” Kíli had stood up and walked a few steps, to stand with his back leaning against one of the trees. “Whatever you said, it was not you speaking. Breaking such enchantment takes enormous strength of will; you proved your true strength when you did.”

 

The memory of the events at the overlook stood vividly before Boromir’s inner eye, his own rage, the fierce anger giving him the strength to push Kíli to his knees… the pained words… the story of Thorin and his death in battle. Much as he wanted to accept Kíli’s easy forgiveness of the events, he had seen how deeply Kíli had been pushed into his own memories, into a pain that he bore, that he deserved more than a badly worded apology. “I owe you more than an apology for my actions at the overlook, Kíli… I don’t know how you even found the will to reach me after…”

 

“That’s what friends do for each other. War-brothers owe each other their lives and they’d not have it any other way,” Kíli interrupted him, and it was clear that there was nothing more to say about it. “At least you could still hear me…” The last was a whisper, maybe not even meant for Boromir.

 

“You tried to reach your Uncle, did you?” Boromir wondered how old Kíli had been during the Quest for Erebor, but he had no reference to truly guess the dwarven lifespan.

 

Kíli wrapped his arms around himself, his eyes going back to the river. “We tried, my brother and I would still try, when the others fell silent, when wisdom would make Balin hold his words, when loyalty would silence Dwalin and when Óin had stormed off declaring this a case of incurable stubbornness. Thorin…” A wealth of warmth and affection crept into Kíli’s voice when he spoke the name of his uncle. “Thorin was our Uncle, the father to raise us after our father fell in battle, we knew him… we had always been able to talk to him. Fili… he tried even after I had stormed off, he tried to the last.”

 

“Fili… he was your brother?” The name indicated it of course, but Boromir found many of the dwarven names confusing and very similar in sound.

 

A light nod was his answer. “My older brother,” Kíli’s voice became tight, strained. “He… he was so brave, when Thorin came to himself again, calling us to rally for battle, to charge at Azog, he was the first to follow, no anger, no grudge… there was this light in his eyes, he knew Thorin was with us again and he’d readily forgive all that had transpired. At least… at least he died knowing Thorin was free of the spell of gold.”

 

Suddenly Boromir remembered what Gimli had said in Moria that Kíli had stood over the body of his Uncle and fought until he too was cut down. What pain, what nightmare must it have been? Boromir had seen friends die, comrades fall beside him but he had been spared the loss of a brother and he could not imagine losing his father and brother within the span of hours, not with madness and evil enchantments involved.

 

Reaching for the stone beside him, he pushed himself up, his legs were wobbly and stiff, but he managed to stand and walk the few steps towards the tree where Kíli stood leaning against the dark tree trunk. Gently he put a hand on the dwarf’s strong shoulder. “All the more I am sorry that I brought the memories back to you.”

 

Kíli looked up to him, his dark eyes stormy with emotion. “No… do not regret that, I would not wish to forget and… regretting it would be dishonoring their sacrifice. The mourning of the dead must never take precedence over the care for the living, that is what Thorin taught me. Where he here now… he would be satisfied to know the Ring did not get you.”

 

“The Ring?” Boromir’s felt like the ground was opening under him. “How… how could you even know?” His mind was racing, Thorongil had insisted no one outside the company must know, and the elves certainly had not shared. A servant of the enemy might know but Kíli could not be a servant of the eye… could he?

 

“You forget I have known Bilbo for more than seven decades, Boromir.” Kíli looked at him calmly, steadily. “I knew he had a Ring to make him invisible which he found during the time he was separated from us during our misadventure in Goblin Town. There was never reason to believe it extraordinary, the elves made many small rings when they delved into the art… but when the Nazgul began to hunt _Baggins_ , there was only one frightening possibility what they might have wanted from a Halfling, what could be so important to bring all the Nine to Eriador. And Bilbo later confirmed my suspicion when we talked in Rivendell.”

 

Boromir remembered how Kíli had mentioned a suspicion on their ride to Rivendell but had refused to voice it loud and he felt foolish. Of course Frodo’s Uncle would have sought the help and advice of an old friend in this matter, who better to turn to? He felt a strong hand clasping his arm, Kíli had pushed away from the tree, maybe also away from the memories. “Come, let us go back.” He said, his eyes pointing to the fire.

 

TRB

 

About an hour later, Boromir had managed to wash up in the river. With the wounds freshly bandaged and the blood off his skin, he felt almost human again. The stew Kíli had cooked helped a lot, too and he felt like he could keep going a day and maybe even the night

 

Taking Truefire he had begun to clean the weapon thoroughly, the axe had taken no real damage in the fight, which was amazing given how many armors and helmets it had hacked through. “Not one scratch,” Boromir said when he cleaned the long edge. “it is amazing the blade is not dented.”

 

“These blades do not dent or shatter easily; neither steel nor stone will mar them.” Kíli too had taken to weapon cleaning, working his way methodically through a number of knives, throwing knives and other small blades.

 

Boromir remembered Gimli saying that one of these axes was buried with its wielder. With what he knew now he guessed it was Kíli’s older brother who had wielded it in the Battle of the Five Armies. He did not speak of it, not wishing to cause Kíli more pain by stirring up memories, much as he would have liked to know more of that battle. He could not really place it, beyond what he had heard of it during their journey. Either Gondor had never heard of the battle at all or it was recorded under a different name.

 

The weapon clean he put it aside, close to where Kíli had put his sword beside the fire. Boromir’s eyes wandered to the hilt of Kíli’s sword, lying on the ground beside the fire. He had always noticed the strange white hilt, but only now he fully realized that it was a long polished tooth that held the blade, a truly large fang transformed into a sword hilt. What creatures had such fangs or… could this be a fang of the dragon that had long ago destroyed Kíli’s homeland? The sun played on the white hilt and now he saw some runes, faintly shining in the white, dark lines softly defined from the polished material. He remembered the hilt aglow with blue fire, but could not place that memory, or why he recalled it so vividly. “These runes, what do they say? You once said they were memories.”

 

Kíli took the weapon up, his fingers tracing the runes. “They are names. Thorin Oakenshield, Fili son of Dari, Balin son of Fundin.”

 

All three names Boromir had heard before, Thorin, Kíli’s Uncle, the tragic hero of the battle of the five Armies, the warrior to turn the battle of Azanulbizar and foster-father to his friend; Fili… Kíli’s older brother, Boromir knew nothing of him beyond that fact, but maybe it was the most important detail to know of him, and Balin, who lay buried in Dwarrowdelf, all three friends or family that Kíli had chosen to commemorate by carving their names into his weapon. It made the Captain remember the dreams about Moria. Had the stories he heard about Kíli’s family maybe intruded his dreams? It would explain a lot.

 

The Dwarf got to his feet. “It will soon be dark,” he said, rolling up the blankets and strapping them to his pack again. “Once night falls, we will continue on the river. So far we have remained unseen.” He continued to clean out the cauldron with some river water and gather and pack up his pack again. While he was working, he again began to hum the tune Boromir had heard when he woke up.

 

Boromir’s lip curled up in a wry smile. “I did not know that this dreadful ballad was even known amongst the Dwarves. Or did you hear from Men?” He had already noticed some things in Kíli that showed he had spent long time among men, he used the word ‘dwarf’ instead of ‘dwarrow’ and he almost perfectly used phrases and sayings of men, something Gimli had struggled with at times.

 

“I had no idea it was even known to Men,” Kíli replied, tilting his head slightly. “What does it say in your tongue?”

 

“It tells the old, silly story of a princess and a common warrior falling in love and marrying. Her warrior then goes to war and dies, and she is eventually buried under the same willow tree where they first met.” Boromir shrugged. “The kind of story the bards will always dreg up when the tavern mood gets too dour. Ah yes… the warrior dies defending his king, of course.” He stopped when he Kíli’s eyes widen and the dwarf’s hand curl up in a first. “You know the story, then?”

 

“It is my parents story.” Kíli swiftly packed up what remained of their camp. “My father fell fighting beside King Thrôr in Azanulbizar. When my mother died she asked that his ashes and her heart would be placed in an urn and buried under the very willow tree where they had been bonded.”

 

“Forgive me, Kíli, I had no idea.” Boromir always had held some dislike for the ballad, the heart-wrenching, hopelessly embellished tale he had believed it to be. He’d never have imagined that it was a true story, let alone the story of a friend. So, his mother had been a Princess of Durin’s House and his father a warrior from the ranks… how would such a match have happened? Boromir was no stranger to the gap birth rank or earned rank could put between any man and a potential friend. But marrying into a house so much higher and vastly different from one’s own rank, it still seemed unlikely. But the way Kíli spoke of his parents it seemed they truly had lived one of those grand eternal stories of love, even if it had been a short-lived one.

 

“If you apologize one more time tonight, I will really begin to wonder if I have somehow managed to attain my uncle’s presence. He was good at making people uneasy with one glance,” Kíli replied, his eyes warming. “And not all memories are sad ones; if we forget the good things, we will break our souls over it and will be dead well before our time.”

 

TRB

 

Again the boat moved out on the river. After a few hours, Boromir became tired again and Kíli suggested he lie down and sleep some more. Boromir settled down and was quickly asleep, hearing Kíli’s voice singing a song about a journey across the Misty Mountains from afar.

 

The predawn hours brought rising mists and the river rushing more quickly. A shadow emerged ahead of them from the dark, like the shape of a ship approaching harbor in the dead of night. Cair Andos’ high cliffs towered above them as the boat shot through the banks of fog. The Moon came out to cast an eerie light on the mists.

 

Boromir had woken, but Kíli pointed him to stay down and not move. This was a dangerous passage; even as Cair Andros was friendly Kíli knew from experience that the island guards could react harshly to any unannounced presence that was not one of their own.  He had gone silent, using the oar sparingly to reduce noise as he steered them quickly past the dangerous passage, hoping that no overeager archer spotted them. But nothing happened, and the boat shot quickly clear of the passage.

 

A lone figure stood on the high rocks by the shoreline of Cair Andros, bow in hand, eyes trained on the river, watching the boat until it vanished in the darkness under mists.

 

TRB

 

Far away from the running waters of nightly Anduin, in the White City of Minas Tirith, an old Man emerged late from the ancient libraries where he had poured over writings and texts of ancient times. Denethor waved away the servant bringing him food and refreshments, as he wished for neither. Taking a single torch, he ordered the servant to leave and walked towards one of the towers. This very tower of the Citadel had stood unused and empty for most of the Steward’s tenure. The lower levels had been used for storage when space had been scarce, but outside of that, the tower itself had not been put to any reasonable use in centuries.

 

Not that anyone questioned Lord Denethor’s decision to enter the tower. A few centuries ago, whispers may have sprung from the Steward’s visit to the Tower of Kings. Nowadays, however, even the name was barely remembered, and neither guard not council would bother to wonder why this tower had been left alone for so long.

 

Denethor opened the tower’s door with an ancient iron key, carefully closing the heavy door behind him. There was a fine layer of dust on the stairwells inside and the air was vapid and stood like it was as old as the tower itself. The Steward was well acquainted with the tower’s condition and by now paid little heed to the untended state of the building as he quickly mounted the long flight of stairs that led up towards the tower’s topmost level. He walked briskly and arrived at the upper door within a short time. Breathing deeply, he used another key – a silver key that had long rested unmarked in a box in the old treasury –to open this door.

 

The room behind the door was stark, no gold, no treasures, not even ornaments or art justifying the precautions taken to keep it sealed. In the very heart of the room was a single stone table a little more than three foot high with two regal stone chairs placed left and right of it The table’s plate was polished, but not even, slightly curved inward to safely hold a large, midnight blue orb that shone with an inner light.  Four arched windows adorned the walls, allowing a view into all directions, through the eastern arch fell the pale light of the moon, illuminating Denethor’s path.

 

Denethor put the torch into the elaborately carved stone scone, shaped like hand, by the door and approached the table. Long had he sought to unravel the mystery of this, and longer still to acquire the writings necessary to understand what he was dealing with. He smiled. The maker of these had left no writings intelligible by the eyes of Men, but those who followed – the Men that made use of this orb for more than an age – had written instructions for it. Those scrolls had been carefully hidden in the depths of the ancient libraries, writings as forbidden and nearly as forgotten as Ar- **Pharazôn’s writings on the deep secrets of magic.** For the eye that discerned those tomes carefully it showed how much of the so-called powers of the Numenorán Kings had been trickery and use of artifacts left by a race much elder than them.

 

Secrets that he was about to make his own. He and his house would gain the powers that were so revered in the old Kings – the powers people believed marked them true Kings, Rulers with powers bestowed upon them that went beyond the reach of mortal men. Putting both hands beside the orb, Denethor began to speak the words he had found in the secret writings, words to awaken the orb, to master it. A spark rose from the deeps of the of the crystal globe, a spark like red fire, the winding, twisting echo of a flame.

 

TRB

 

Faramir silently rose from his bedroll, careful to not wake any of the sleepers close by as he slipped from the garrison. When he had lain down hours before he had been ill at ease, a grave sadness settling on him as the day was waning, but in spite of being exhausted in body, sleep had been elusive. After tossing and turning on his bedroll for hours, he could not stand it any longer.

 

The nightly air outside was cool and soothing; he walked along the watch-path and down to the rocks above the waterline of Cair Andros. How often had it calmed his mind to watch the rushing waters of Anduin? Many a time he had come to the mighty stream, watching the water run by, like they could take his worries and sorrows away on their long journey towards the sea. But not tonight, This night a deep, heart-wrenching sadness had crept up upon him as he stood at the shore. Mists arose – pale silvery mists emerging from the dark water below, veiling the river in their silken wisps. The barren trees on the other side of the river seemed like dark, dangerous apparitions, pale vapor hanging on their very branches. Why did everything in this night seem to weigh him down heavily?

 

Something on the water made him look down, like a minuscule movement against the blackness. He squinted his eyes, peering more closely. Was something out there, was someone approaching or sneaking past the island, in the depth of night? He narrowed his eyes, gazing into the mist. The Moon came up from behind a cloud, shedding silver light on the river as the lazy breeze parted the gloom for a few moments. Down in the silver light, Faramir saw a boat drifting by, and his brother lying in that boat, resting, his arms crossed against his chest, weapon beside him, unmoving and pale in the fleeting light of the moon… like dead… like one of the heroes of old, send to the sea for their final journey. Only a dark ferryman was with him, an obscured figure in a shadowy cloak. Pain clamped down on Faramir’s heart when he saw the boat vanish into the haze. _Oh, Brother…_  He raised his hand like reaching out for the boat already gone into the night, on the journey from whence there was no return. His heart had feared such an outcome for Boromir’s journey, in dreams he had seen him fall before… but now, he _knew,_ there was no doubt, the boat had been there, like a mercy of fate granting him the right to say his final goodbyes.

 

He did not know how long he stood by the river, the pain washing over him like a fierce storm as what he had seen burned in his mind. The pale light of the new day was rising when approaching steps pulled him from his reverie. “Faramir?”

 

He did not need the gentle voice to tell him who it was: Veryan of Dol Amroth, one of his brother’s friends and most trusted lieutenants. Hastily, Faramir swiped his hand over his eyes, trying to hide the tears that had traced his cheeks, even as he was aware that the Swan Knight knew him for too long, to not be familiar with that gesture.

                                                                                                                                  

“Faramir, what happened?” Veryan stepped up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He had been raised together with both brothers, who were his cousins, he knew them well enough to easily read their moods. He had left the garrison in a hurry, when he had noticed Faramir’s vanishing, he knew all too well how dreams and visions could haunt Faramir and that he sometimes needed help to find his way out of the dreams again. Dark blue eyes shone in the light of the moon, their sparkle not hiding the concern that was clear in them.

 

Closing his eyes, Faramir tried to push away the sadness of the eerie apparition he had seen on the water. “My brother…” he whispered in a voice devoid of life. “I saw him, Veryan. Dead. A boat carrying him to the Sea.” The pain and sadness seemed to wrap around him like a cloak, much more fiercely this time, he could not breathe, he wanted to truly cry for his brother, to scream out the horrible pain his passing left, but no noise would leave his throat.

 

“A boat? Are you sure, Faramir?” Veryan asked. He could see the signs of a recent vision all over Faramir, and sometimes it was the simple questions that helped Faramir to focus and relay what he had seen more clearly. “In these mists…”

 

“I know what I saw, my friend: a boat drifting by, driven by a dark ferryman.” Faramir allowed himself to lean on Veryan for a moment. He felt a strong arm around his shoulders as he was drawn closer, relaxing into a hug. He leaned against Veryan’s shoulder, knowing he could allow for this moment weakness because Veryan would never use it against him. In whispered words he described all he had seen.

 

The Swan Knight frowned. “Faramir, if you saw a ferryman and a boat, then there was a person on that vessel, a living person steering the boat past the currents. If they passed us in the night, they will hit upon the broken bridge above Amen Ford soon. The rubble in the water and the barriers we built should force the boat ashore.”

 

Something in Veryan’s firm dedication broke through Faramir’s sadness, like a ray of light would always break the clouds. “You think we can find them?”

 

“We will. If he is really dead, he shall be buried with honor. If not… then someone is playing tricks on your mind and will answer for them.” Faramir slowly stepped back from his friend, finding his own strength again, grateful that Veryan had been here, that he was always there when he needed him most. To Boromir the Swan Knight might be a trusted comrade and one of the sharpest weapons in the arsenal, to Faramir he was a friend, his cousin, who had been there for him in many a dark moment.

 

Not an hour later, Faramir left Cair Andos with a few riders, all of them Veryan’s men. Whatever this was, Faramir knew the Swan Knights would keep their silence on strange findings and not spread wild rumors among the troops. Faramir waved for Veryan to catch up with him, the Swan Knight spurning his horse and quickly arriving beside him. “Lord Faramir?”

 

The Ranger Captain knew he should not be surprised, in spite of having grown up together and being cousins by blood and friends since childhood, Veryan would always keep the proper respect, fall back into formalities once they were not alone, he had always been careful to show the proper respect towards both Faramir and his brother and there were times when Faramir found it hard to bear.

 

He waved it off. “Not today, Veryan, please. On this day I need a friend by my side, not a servant.” It was a friendship that had only been made possible by the fact that they were related by blood through Findulas of Dol Amroth, Faramir’s mother, who had been the sister of Veryan’s father.

 

“As you wish.” Veryan inclined his head. They were interrupted by one of their scouts returning from the riverbanks. The Ranger moved up to them soft footedly and stopped beside their horses.

 

“We have spotted a camp right above the broken bridge; they even have the nerves to have a nice fire going,” the scout reported, his voice reflecting clear disapproval of what he had found. Faramir did not comment on it directly, it was rare for strangers to stray so blatantly into Gondor’s borders but it had been known to happen.

 

Dismounting, Faramir gestured Veryan to follow him. A camp and a fire did not fit the dreadful vision of the past night. He wanted to get closer and see for himself what was going on. It was not very far – the broken bridges had long been destroyed, creating a blockade in Anduin’s flow shortly upriver from Amen Ford north of Osgiliath. Like a shadow gliding through the forest, Faramir approached the camp through the hillside above. It was quite true they had made a fire right by the ruins of the old bridgehead.

 

The first he saw was a short man clad in armor, returning to the camp. He had a bow slung over his shoulder a wild mane of very dark hair framed his broad shoulders, he did not seem to have the habit of trimming them, for the long locks reached to his shoulder-blades. A few very pronounced grey steaks marked him for no young man either, though the Ranger wondered what man in his mature years would flaunt such mane. Did he actually wear braids like a girl? Faramir frowned deeply. What strange folk had come to this place? “I got him, before he could get away. He is on the bottom of the river feeding the fishes.” the man said in a deep baritone voice. “One less Orc to spy on your bastions, it was a scout by the looks of it.”

 

“Did he follow us or did he come from the east?” a familiar voice asked, as a Man rose from the shadows of the broken bridgehead. The breath stuck in Faramir’s throat, as he was unable to move, only to stare down at the camp. There stood the brother whom he had feared dead. Pale though he may be, Boromir was alive.

 


	13. We ride in the gathering storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:
> 
> One of the chief troubles when writing about Gondor’s troops was the confusion in ranks, because Tolkien left us with little more than a few captains. In my first version of this story, it was frustrating to say the least. Here, I chose to change some things, to make it a little easier for the readers, and worked with the following ranks:
> 
> Captain of Gondor (Boromir)  
> Captain of the Rangers (Faramir)  
> Alaris of the Tower Guard (Thoroniar) – formerly also “Captain”, I chose to steal an ancient roman rank instead.
> 
> I hope it will make the ranks less confusing.
> 
> Valandhir

** Chapter 12: We ** ** ’ ** ** ll ride in the gathering storm **

****

Boromir! Faramir had his hand pressed over his mouth like to strangle a shout or scream rising in his throat. His brother was alive – he had not lain dead in that drifting boat, and whoever his dark ferryman was, he looked much less frightening in the broad light of day. Letting his hand sink, he exhaled slowly, and gestured his men to move down, encircle the camp the way they would with strangers. It may not be quite the proper way to greet his brother but Faramir could not resist to pay Boromir back for the fright at least a little. They were halfway down the hillside when the short man jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword. “There’s more crawling through these woods,” he said, drawing the blade as he found cover for his back in a chunk of rubble. The long blade in his hands seemed too long for him to wield, but the way he stood betrayed long practice with the two handed weapon.

 

Faramir left the cover the heavy trunk of an old silver-lime tree had offered him, and pushed pack the hood of his cloak, realizing that they had been heard. It was rare that someone picked up on the soft steps of a Ranger approaching. “There is more in this land than Orcs, stranger,” he said, striding into their small camp. His brother was standing too, wielding an axe of all things. He had remained on the other side of the fire, standing with his back to an ash tree, and Faramir realized that the two fighters would have had any attackers coming from the landside between them. His brother and his companion had either been communicating swifter than he had seen or the stranger did well to pick up on Boromir’s battle tactics.

 

Faramir’s eyes went to Boromir who stood feet planted firmly on the ground, a long axe in both hands, the blade of the weapon was curved, glittering coldly in the sun. Maybe it was the odd choice of a weapon that made Boromir appear wilder, more untamed than ever to Faramir’s eyes. He noticed that his brother was leaner, muscles still strongly defined but the journey had caused hardships on him, reducing him to his very essence, there was a new scar parting his left eyebrow, and in the way he had chosen his balance Faramir recognized that Boromir must either be injured or too tired to focus on his center properly.

 

When he recognized his brother, Boromir lowered his weapon. “Faramir!” He put the axe down and strode towards Faramir to draw him into a fierce embrace. Faramir returned the hug, ignoring the nearly painful pressure Boromir’s arms put on his back. He was too glad to see him alive to care. In the strong embrace he lost the last doubts that this was a dream or trick of his mind. Boromir was alive, he had come home and that was all that mattered. “I had not hoped to meet you so soon,” his older brother eventually said, pulling back from their hug. “We had planned on reaching Osgiliath before next nightfall.”

 

“We?” Faramir asked, gently reminding his brother that whatever else there may be, he had brought a stranger into Gondor’s borders. The Captain of Gondor had the right to grant a stranger permission to remain inside their borders for a time, even a long time in some cases, if their skills were important to Gondor. A few of the finest bladesmiths and armorers had been such cases, staying for as long as a decade, along with healers or surgeons that were willing to lend their skill to the war effort. But only the Steward could confirm a permanent move. And their father had always been parsimonious with such things.

 

Turning to his companion, Boromir gestured him to join them. The short man approached and bowed deeply. “Kíli son of Dari, at your service.”

 

It was not a Man at all, but a Dwarf. It had to be. Faramir had read about them and their customs. He looked different than the Dwarves drawn in the old books, with his beard being short and trimmed it stood out even more that his facial proportions were much more regular than those portrayed in the books, but still there was little doubt he had to be a dwarf. Hastily, he bowed in turn. “Faramir son of Denethor, at yours and your family’s,” he replied, as he’d read was proper. Seeing the glint in his brother’s eye, the amused sparkle, he realized that his brother who had rarely bothered to learn such things must have been in for an _interesting_ journey to say the least. Who knew what kind of troubles he had gotten into, the glint in his bespoke some amusing stories.

 

Riding with the expectation to find captives by the end of the day, Faramir’s troop had brought some extra horses with them. On Faramir’s gesture they brought two of these for Boromir and Kíli. “We were on our way back to Osgiliath as well,” Faramir told his brother. “I had been inspecting Cair Andros. But now that you are here, that would be your duty.” Boromir hated inspections with a passion, relegating them whenever he could get away with it to Targir or Veryan, and Faramir could not resist teasing his brother just a little. With the great joy of seeing him alive, alive and well, he could not help it.

 

“No time for such games, Brother. A storm is upon us and we need to be prepared. Have a rider dispatched to carry the message of my return to our father. He must know I have returned and will take command of Osgiliath immediately.” Boromir mounted the horse and Faramir noticed that Boromir moved stiffly, not as smooth and swift as he knew of him. But the way the put the axe in the hold by the saddle bespoke familiarity with the weapon.

 

The Ranger’s eyes went Kíli, the dwarf might have difficulties with the tall horse, but to his surprise he saw the dwarf mount with ease, his eyes on the column, searching for the spot to fall into formation. Before Faramir could point him somewhere, Boromir had seen the glance and waved him to join them. The dwarf guided the mare towards them, seeing that Faramir rode to Boromir’s ride, he kept to the left.

 

“Our father will be overjoyed to hear of your return,” Faramir replied honestly if belatedly to what Boromir had said,Denethor had been waiting long for his favorite son to return home, and eagerly awaited word. “but do you not wish to return to Minas Tirith? Osgiliath is—”

 

“Is the point where the Enemy will strike first, and we have little time to get ready. Which of the provinces have been mustered and are ready to march?”

 

Boromir had spurred the horse to a fast trot, and as he looked at Faramir there was a fierce light in his eyes, they shone brightly. Faramir knew his brother; he had seen this strength in the past, and he had also see it wane and nearly break under the brunt of the years of war, but it seemed whatever he had seen on his journey had renewed his strength and will to fight. “None,” he admitted. “Our father does not permit it. I argued and…”

 

“And he said nay, like always.” Boromir shook his head, unsurprised and frustrated. He knew he should not have expected his father to act, Denethor had failed to act decisively in too many years, but a small part of him still hoped the Steward would find out of the shadowed world in which is mind walked and would turn to the tasks at hand instead of leaving them entirely to him. “We have no time for this.”

 

He turned on his horse to conduct a short survey of the dozen riders with Faramir. “Send Damrod to Belfalas, Ergon to Lossarnarch, and Thardir to Morthrond. They are to muster immediately and commit their troops. Belfalas is to man the coast and reinforce Cair Erafel, Lebeninn and Morthrond march on Minas Tirith, and…” Boromir’s eyes found the man he had been looking for in the column, he had known Veryan would be here of course, but seeing the familiar face, invoked the dreams again, leaving a cold inside him. Veryan would follow him wherever he led, he knew that, and remembering the warrior who had been in his dreams, following him under the wings of the shadow itself, was painful and pleasant all the same. For Boromir knew he did not need the Ring to know Veryan’s loyalties, even as he knew Veryan would not question him, not even if he had fallen and failed.  

 

Seeing the blood drain from his brother’s face as he spotted Veryan, Faramir wondered what might make Boromir react so strongly to his presence. But he had no time to think about it further, because Boromir was already issuing orders to the Man.

 

“Veryan, I will need you to ride to Lebeninn. Track down Hirluin of Tol Falas and make him commit all his troops to Osgiliath. Be as arrogant as you need to but get me his best Men within a week. If he does not want to come, leave him and his war-master at home; we want the troops, not their Lord.”

 

Veryan saluted, fist over his heart. “It shall be done, my Captain.” He turned his horse at once to carry out the orders he had been given.

 

“The Lord of Tol Falas will not be happy,” Faramir pointed out diplomatically. Boromir had never cared with politeness where a good barked order would suffice, but alienating the nobles was never a wise course of action. And using Veryan’s status, as Son of the Prince of Dol Amroth and Swan Knight to do it would only anger Imrahil of Dol Amroth sooner or later. He disliked the tensions that rose from such moments, when Veryan had to pull rank on minor nobles to whip them in line.

 

“Hirluin is welcome to it; I will keep him a warm spot in the front ranks if he insists on coming,” Boromir told him. “I don’t assume we have called for Rohan already? No… how could we? We’d need Father’s seal for that. So it will have to wait.”

 

Faramir waited for the riders to speed off to carry out their orders before he spoke again. “What has you in such a hurry, Brother?” he asked. “We have been seeing more enemy movements of late, Haradrim marching towards the Black Gate, but… they may as well be meant to fight some unrest in the East. Rumors are spreading about some insurrection within the Easterling Empire.”

 

“Nay, Faramir, not this time.” Boromir replied. “Forces are moving, the Enemy is ready to act. The Nine rode from Minas Morgul to the North, on much the same reason that sent me on my journey.” His eyes went past Faramir and for a moment the Ranger Captain could see pain in them, whatever Boromir had seen on his ride to the North, it had not been good. “The enemy is not yet beyond doubt, Fari, but he is hunting for his final weapons while he readies his armies to strike and his attack will come swift and hard before long.”

 

“The East has been bleeding off the numbers of the Orcs under Mount Gundabad and other places for years,” Kíli spoke up. “that Goblin Town was so empty when you found it, Boromir, was because many of their number were driven East.”

 

Faramir had been surprised at the dwarf’s additions to their discussion, it was rare even for a friend, to have the confidence to join one of their discussions like this, he also could not help but notice the deep voice with the musical, lilting accent that sounded so foreign to their ears. But Boromir’s reaction surprised him the most, for his brother barked a laugh.

 

“If their numbers were _reduced_ already, I do not want to imagine what life in Eriador was with them at their full strength, Kíli. Is there a difference between the denizens of Goblin Town and the Orcs from Mount Gundabad, you mentioned them separately.”

 

“Most of the enemies we encountered were Goblins,” Kíli explained, guiding his horse with one hand at the reins, the other raised to underline his words with a gesture. “Bolg… he was a Gundabad Orc.”

 

An Orc with a name to him, that was not simply one of the many Morbeth words for ‘slave’ or ‘thrall’? Faramir listened up curiously, especially as he saw the scowl on Boromir’s face. “I take it you know this Orc?” he inquired, wondering how his brother would have come to know one particular Orc.

 

“I’ve met him, he was a tough beast.” Boromir told him, his face still grim. “if the Enemy has been recruiting Warg riders from the North, we will have to teach the men quickly how to handle those.”

 

“Wolf riding Orcs, the chronicles of Arnor speak of such,” Faramir remembered reading about them once or twice, but even there it had been a mention in passing.

 

“They are huge, Fari, and strong, wild and more cunning than any warrior would like. Kíli is the one who has lots of experience with them.”

 

TRB

 

Most of the ride to Osgiliath they used to plan further on bolstering the defenses along the border, : provisions had to be secured at Osgiliath and at Minas Tirith, the villages in Ithilien had to be mustered for anyone able to bear weapons, and all settlements beyond the river were to retreat across the Anduin. They arrived in Osgiliath as the afternoon Sun announced the fourth hour past midday. Most of the city had sunken into ruins during the long war, in the last decades alone the city had been overrun and retaken several times and the traces were visible in crushed buildings, crumbling streets and broken walls. But on the western shore of the Great River still stood Celanost the Guardian Citadel of the River, the one stronghold Gondor had been able to uphold in the embattled city. Originally Celanost had not been much more but a walled tower, but when the war had become fierce, the Gondorians had used the wall structures there and expanded them, filling holes with heavy stonework and closing walls with blocks until they had turned parts of the former city into a veritable fortress.   

 

Faramir winced when he saw the way Boromir’s eyes quickly scanned the fortifications. Repairs had been under way since the city had been re-taken, but he knew where there still were weak spots, and at what points he brother might find the troops guarding the citadel lacking. He knew Boromir’s expressions well, and he could easily tell at what points he gaze stayed and a frown, or glance indicated he had seen something he disliked. To his surprise, his brother did not turn to him with another set of orders to address whatever issues he had spotted, but to the Dwarf.“ Kíli, are you as good finding tunnels and rat holes in foreign buildings as you are in mines?” he asked.

 

The Dwarf looked around, his eyes taking in the walls and the tower, and for a moment Faramir had the distinct impression that Kíli too was looking for specific things, only that his eyes stayed longer on the heavy East Wall and the place where a barricade of massive blocks walled up the connection between two former bastions in the North wall. “Not totally foreign, Boromir, but, yes, there is little Dwarves don’t find in a stone building.”

 

“Good; we need to find any hole and tunnel that leads inside our fortifications and block it,” Boromir said. With a quick look along the walls, he scanned the Rangers supplementing the archers on the battlements, spotting the one he had been looking for at the far side of the main bastion. At a distance it was often hard to tell the cloaked figures of the Rangers apart, but this one stood out with his wild mane of caliginous locks that never staid inside the leather band holding them. “Anarion, gather your men and go with Kíli. See that any gap he finds is closed. Listen to him about that,” The Ranger bowed and sprinted to the other end of the battlements to gather up his other archers, albeit he was only in his early twenties he was already responsible for several more Rangers.

 

“Brother…” Faramir gently led his Captain out of the yard and towards one of the ramparts where they may talk unobserved by the others. “What has happened to you? Your journey? The dream that sent you north? What did it mean?” He had wished to speak of the reason of Boromir’s journey since they had met, but the matters of war had taken precedence. And the one time Boromir had mentioned the reason for his journey he had mentioned the Nine in the same sentence.

 

Boromir looked at him directly, holding his gaze firmly until all of Faramir’s focus was on his response. “It meant that the Shadow is now rising, beyond doubt, beyond holding back. Brother, war – true war – is upon us. The Enemy is gathering his forces. It was Orcs of the Eye that nearly captured me at Amon Hen.”

 

“Orcs capturing you at Amon Hen?” Faramir asked, in a low voice, curling his hands together, not allowing them to shake. “How…?” How was Boromir so sure? He had been sure on their ride here, but… there was something in his voice, in his whole demeanour that said he was sure, he _knew_ that the storm was coming.

 

Leaning against the wall, Boromir told his brother of the last leg of their Quest. There was no time for a full tale, so he told him of the Orc attack that had shattered the group and how the Orcs of the Hand had nearly captured him. “Without Kíli’s timely interference, I’d be in the hands of the Enemy by now,” he finished. “And I know our time is running out. The world’s time is running short. We must be ready to face the Shadow.”

 

Amazed, Faramir looked at his brother. Boromir had always been a great leader, a true Captain, but the years of war had worn him down. Faramir had seen his brother’s strength give out and the bitter desperation creep into his voice and eyes. But that was gone now, as if the shadow of doubt, the belief that they were abandoned by the rest of the world, had been burned away from. While their situation had not changed, and Boromir had not once spoken of hope, Faramir saw a new determination in his brother, a will to fight like never before, to fight and die without despair or fears. He had grown on this journey. Through danger and pain he had grown to new strength, to a will to stand in the face of the Shadow and not to give in to the very end. Something had happened to kindle the flames of war in him again to a burning blaze. “Then we will stand ready,” he replied, he knew it would be a bitter battle to the end, if true war came to Gondor, but he knew they would make it a fight that would be remembered. The Captain of Gondor had returned to lead them into the storm, onto the very wheel of fire and they would follow him into the blaze.

 

TRB

 

Night spread its dark blanket on Osgiliath. A cold wind blew from the east, ruffling the waters of the river and howling in the empty windows and gateways of the city, as if to remind all those stationed inside Celanost that a storm was rising. Faramir walked through the ruined arches near the outer wall. Within half a day, the whole garrison had changed. The soldiers were… different – there was no denying it. They were more confident, hopeful and determined; their Captain had returned and with him they’d hold out against the end itself. Faramir knew he did not inspire the same kind of loyalty in the troops. They trusted him, fought well for him, but they’d never march to their certain doom for him, nor did he want them to.

 

He saw Anarion squatted on the rim of one of the ancient wells that had long sat unused in the ruined parts of the former city. “There, grab my hand,” the young Ranger said, reaching down.

 

Faramir stopped. None of the soldiers would have been so clumsy as to fall into one of the wells. He walked over to see what was happening. He spotted a large, strong hand grab the rim of the well, and moments later Kíli climbed from the dark shaft. He had shed his armor, only wearing a tunic and breeches made from sturdy brown leather, well-worn and simple in make, and he was soaked.  The way he crouched on the rim of the well, as he climbed made his strong hands stand out, both with a firm hold on the rough stones. The dwarf’s frame was leaner than Faramir had expected, but there was an undeniable power in him. Sitting down on the rim of the well, Kíli pushed his wet locks out of his face. “It goes right down to the river, Anarion, much like the other one.”

 

The young Ranger’s face was grim. “Is it passable for Orcs?” he asked, peering down the shaft.

 

“I made it through to the river and back, so I’d say yes. And after a bath not even their stench will give them away.” Kíli’s joke elicited a few laugh from the other Rangers, who had been watching from the sidelines. The dwarf hopped off the well’s rim. “We need to block this rat hole.”

 

Kíli’s eyes went to the rubble of a former building under the next arch. “That stone slab there will do nicely, at least for the night.” He pointed three of the Rangers to use levers to raise the slab enough for Anarion and him to move ropes under it, while he send two others to climb up to the wall and guide the ropes over a broken beam. It allowed them to ease the huge slab off the rubble and move it towards the well.

 

The way they worked bespoke knowledge and experience with this kind of task, but what Faramir noticed more was the way they worked. Kíli moved among the Rangers with a casual ease, like he did not feel out of place among all the Men at all, his orders were given evenly, not once did he raise his voice, but they carried a quiet authority that was hard to miss.

 

As they swung the heavy slab towards the well, one of the Rangers lost his grip on the rope, the thick cordage slipping through his hands. Kíli, grabbed it before he could fall, pulling it towards the one he had secured. His shoulders spanning as he pulled both to bring the block into position and not long after the broken chunk of former ceiling rested firmly on the well hole.

 

Once Kíli could let go of the ropes he hurried to the man who had dropped the rope. “Are you alright?”

 

The young archer nodded dazedly. “I… I am sorry, it should not have happened.”

 

Kíli clapped his shoulder. “Have someone look at your hands, rope burns are nasty.” He said in friendly tones before turning to the others. “I think that’s it for the night, Anarion, you look ready to drop where you stand. See your men get some rest; I shall report back to the Captain.”

 

Faramir saw Anarions insecure gaze alternating between him and Kíli, and gave the other Ranger a quick nod to proceed. “You can give your first report to me,” he said to Kíli.

 

The Dwarf inclined his head. “Lord Faramir,” he acknowledged the younger of the Steward’s sons. “We have found a number of passages through the walls, some simply hidden tunnels, some old wells or tunnels below the waterline. Most of the eastern side is searched and we blocked what we found. We’ll proceed with southern part of the fortifications at dawn.”

 

“You have my thanks for putting yourself to the task like this,” Faramir replied, “and yet, you may wish to be careful, for my father is not a man to appreciate someone deeming a task finished without having orders to do so.” Faramir added the last in lighter tones, as a friendly warning about a man luckily not here at the moment.

 

“I may be able to see in the dark nearly as well as in daylight,” Kíli replied, “but your men don’t, and they are tired. A few hours’ worth of lifting rocks and rubble on top of a fully day’s watch… They will be of more use after some rest and food. They are good men but they are not used to that kind of work.”

 

“And you are?” Again Faramir studied the dwarf, standing before him. He had read books about Dwarves and their history, seeing drawings of them as well. He also had met a few Dwarven mercenaries, though he would not base his judgment of Dwarves on them. Kíli was taller than many of his kind but not quite as stocky, his lean frame seemed atypical, especially compared with some of his people whom Faramir had seen. He had the strong shoulders and hands that were so often described in his people, but he was not a small mountain, like especially one of the mercenaries who Faramir remembered. That dwarf had been all power, muscles, a mountain made flesh. There also was a difference in Kíli’s speech that Faramir noticed the longer he heard him, his accent was not the same and… he spoke in more cultured tones, like someone who had seen more of an education. There was nothing rude or lower class about the way he talked and Faramir would have guessed him to be a warrior, maybe someone from a better family, instead of common laborer.

 

“I’ve worked in quarries before.” Kíli slipped two slim knives from the sleeves of his tunic, drying them off swiftly, before donning his armor again and slipping them under his bracers. There was an odd balance between the warrior and… what exactly? Faramir wondered, in Kíli. He could detect a note of pride in what he had said about the quarries, but the way he handled the armor bespoke the ease of an old warrior handling the chainmail. And taking two blades down the well, that was a hint of paranoia well suited for a Ranger that always expected trouble. “And working at the anvil all day will teach you endurance.” Kíli went on, looking up to him.

 

Now there was something that seemed to go with any story of Dwarves: the forge. Faramir smiled. “Be this as it may, you too deserve your rest, Master Dwarf. I shall take your report to my brother. Anarion will show you to where you may rest.”

 

TRB

 

There was no real garrison in Osgiliath; the quarters used by the troops were in buildings fixed up enough to serve such purpose. Anarion had shown Kíli where he could camp down among them and where the cistern was to wash up after a long day. Kíli had taken the chance of the latter gladly. Scrubbing the dirt off his skin was good. He also used the time to put a comb through his dark mane. Looking at his reflection in the clear water of the cistern pool, he saw for the first time the changes – how the using the spell had affected him.

 

He had sported some iron-grey streaks in his dark hair for years now, but overnight a number of silvery streaks had appeared falling from the top of his head, mingling with his dark locks, a few where truly white, standing out strongly amongst the darker hair. He was well aware that it was the price of the spell: what the enchantment in the Dragon’s tooth had taken out of him to fan Boromir's fleeting lifespark into a burning a flame was more than strength of momentary energy – it had fed on his very essence and shaved off some of his own life. He did not regret it the least, he had been able to chase away the black veiled Lady this time, and see a friend survive. For once he had been able to step between a friend and certain death and succeed where he had failed in the past. It was worth the price twice over.  

 

He had known that this would be the consequence; the one-handed one had warned him against it, the spell had not been made for mortals to use in the first place. Having cleaned up, the Dwarf quickly took some of the pale streaks near his temples, intertwining them with the darker ones in two braids, one braid remaining unchanged, five strands speaking of family lost, in honor of the memories of those Kíli had buried and was still mourning, the other one would have been in honor of Fíli, signifying the solitary wanderer, of the one who would go on, even as his soul and heart rested beside their brother. Kíli looked at himself in the waters, knowing he was not the lone wanderer anymore, he had accepted to fight for others, to care, to live for a cause… and somewhere in his heart there was a small spark that had been lit yearning to reach for that cause, for that life. He touched the other braid, it would always hold the memory of his brother, even if Kíli was the lone wanderer no longer, He took two pale strands and three dark ones, braiding them into the band of the fighter, of the warrior dedicated, attaching the steel clasps to them. Thorin had made for him when he had come of age; they were adorned with the raven in flight.

 

When Kíli returned to the makeshift barracks, one of the young Rangers, who’s bronze skin made him look like a Southlander, handed him some bread and cheese. “You must be hungry, sir,” he said. Kíli studied the face, needing only a moment to recall the name. “Thank you, Anarion.”

 

He sat down with the troop, slowly eating some of the bread. He noticed the stares he got from the troop. Some of them were openly mustering him, seizing him up, while most of the troop tried to be less overt in their glances, but they too were look at him with curiosity. It was nothing new to him – Dwarves attracted a good amount of attention among humans, even those who, like himself, had learned to blend in and reduce the inevitable tell-tale signs. A dwarf who would cut his beard, wore his hair simply without braids or other funny attachments, and was careful to not draw attention to the size of his hands, could pass for a short Man with a little effort. Kíli had done that before, the accent always presented a problem, of course.

 

When he found Anarion stare at him again, he looked up and held his gaze. “Something has you restless,” he observed, giving the younger warrior the chance to either ask or change his behavior.

 

Anarion was startled by the words. “I apologize, Kíli; it simply seems strange and wondrous that a stranger would return with Lord Boromir and… a Dwarf at that.”

 

Kíli could hear the thinly veiled questions behind that comment. He was a stranger who had been assigned to the troop of Rangers and they were trying to assess him. It was a normal thing: Dwarf war-bands worked on the same principle. “You can blame the Orcs for that,” he told them, deciding to regale them with a tale or two of Boromir’s heroics on their journey.

 

TRB

 

Faramir had found Boromir stowing away the things from his travelling pack in the makeshift room atop one of the towers that served as their quarters. It was not much better than any other place in the ruined city; a barren room with blankets on the floor for sleep, a rickety crate to store weapons and other items and a solid stone floor that could serve as a map table as needed, the only luxury it afforded was a small amount of privacy, by being inside a broken tower, away from the main barracks. “Kíli stopped the search for more tunnels for the night,” he said. “He felt they’d not be able to see well enough to continue and that Anarion’s men were too exhausted. Although he does not give my men enough credit for their skills of sight, I would agree that they have been worked very hard today. The Rangers are not stonemasons; they are not used to heavy lifting.”

 

“You disapprove?” Boromir set aside his vambraces, revealing a bandage on his left forearm. “And you may be underestimating Kíli’s eyes; I have seen him navigate dark tunnels without any light like it was in bright daylight.”

 

“Why would I? He is very skilled, finding more tunnels than we ever could have,” Faramir said quietly, noting the interesting detail about the dwarf, Boromir must have seen some interesting places during the journey. “But I wonder how the Dwarf could still stand and work like that; he must have been more tired than our men.”

 

“I’d not be sure about that,” Boromir replied, inspecting the bandage on his arm and trying to loosen it unsuccessfully.” His people lost their home a long time ago, and in exile they had to take whatever work they could find, no matter how high or low; they have worked in forges, roadworks, and—”

 

“Quarries? Yes... He mentioned having... worked in a quarry in the past. Still…”He saw how Boromir made a face as the tight wrapping on his arm would not move. . “Brother… what are you doing?”

 

“I need to change those dressings to see which are still necessary,” Boromir replied, stopping for a moment to inspect the covering. “Faramir… Kíli has come through this land before, as a youth working with his uncle in the forge. I would not be surprised if knew this city from a time before our birth.”

 

The Ranger ignored the attempt at distraction. “Let me take a look at those bandages, brother. You will only make it worse, and I would prefer to have you free of fevers.” With a resigned glance, Boromir sat down and allowed his brother to inspect his various injuries.

 

In his life as a Ranger and a soldier of Gondor, Faramir had seen a great number of injuries – had received quite a few himself – but the more he saw of the traces on his brother’s body, the more horrified he became. Angry red lines still marred the chest and sides, two of them alone close to the heart, another already healed scar ran down the shoulder, and was crossed at the neck by a fresh one Faramir had to steady his hands, Boromir must have been nearly hacked to pieces, so many traces of deep blade wounds, and not just a few that must be from arrows. The Ranger was no stranger to pain but what his brother must have been through was beyond that. Most of the wounds were closed already or even scarring over, but they must have been horrible when freshly received. “Boromir… how did you even survive this?” he asked, “How could you travel with such wounds? When did this happen?”

 

While Boromir had taken stock of his own shape back at their camp on the riverbank, they had been crusted over and well on the way to healing, but now the crusts were gone and the wounds fully closed. “Rauros,” he said softly. “It happened there…” He touched a scar on his chest it tingled under his fingers, reminding him of the pain when the Orc axe had cut through his armor. Like the echo of the pain from the hammer that had all but smashed his wrist. . “I… I don’t know Faramir. I remember lying on the ground, bleeding out. Kíli was there and… I knew I was dying. It was all cold and dark…” He frowned, remembering the darkness creeping in, the cold creeping with it, the chill settling in drowning out the pain. Kíli’s strong hand clasping his…

 

“But when did it happen? How long ago?” Faramir asked, a little impatiently, seeing his brother was dodging the question. How often had his brother pretended to be fine, to not be injured, to not hurt? Boromir was good at hiding how bad things had been, even when he had returned from those horrible dungeons had he managed to smile at Faramir and joke about Orc hygiene. He would not let him bear this alone, no matter how much Boromir tried to shield him.

 

“Four… maybe five days ago.” Boromir was not sure how long they had been at the river, or how long he had slept.

 

Faramir turned from his brother for a moment, his hand covering his mouth like to stifle a ‘no!’ or other shout. When the words finally came out, they were still chocked.. "But that's... that's not possible!"

 

Boromir looked down at the scars. He could see the many marks on his body and he knew his brother was right: he should not be so well healed – or healed at all.

 

“By rights you should have died,” Faramir observed. “I doubt even our healers could have saved you in time. Not with so many deep wounds. ‘Tis a miracle that you lived to recover at all.” He saw how Boromir’s gaze went past him, to the narrow crenel in the wall, but not really seeing it either. “You know what happened?” Boromir’s shoulders slumped as he bowed his head, drawing closer in on himself. Faramir stepped closer, he had not seen such a physical retreat in his brother in many years. Gently he put a hand on his shoulder, to let him know he was not alone. .

 

Boromir looked up, his eyes holding a strange expression. “I was dying, Faramir, bleeding out, I do not know how I managed to stand during that last fight at all. My wrist was shattered, breathing was painful and all was dizzy. We had fought off the last Orcs that had captured me, and Kíli tried to stop the bleeding but… you are right: not even the healers could have done anything. I knew it was the end, Fari.”

 

Breathlessly, Faramir listened; he could see that his brother’s mind was far away, back in that riverbank. “I tried to tell Kíli to go but he… he put his sword right into my hands. It burned like fire in my grasp. I still can hear his voice: ‘ _You will hold onto this sword, and you will not let go, Captain, until I tell you otherwise.’_ It was an order, Fari, taking hold so strongly, I could not let go. _”_ Boromir’s hands curled into firsts, finding hold in the stone of the wall. “I'm not sure what happened next... It seemed like a blue flame chased the darkness away, burning it out… but there was a void, a wide emptiness that took the pain, my mind… I could finally sleep…When I woke, we were on the riverbank close to Cair Andos and I was healed.”

 

Faramir could not speak his throat was constricted, nor would his lips utter any words. . Now that he realized how close he had come to losing his brother forever, he was all the more grateful he had been returned to them. “Although your wounds seem healed well, I shall send for your friend, he has used some salve I do not know on your bandages and I would not risk your recovery through my ignorance,” he said firmly.

 

“Most if it seems healed well enough,” Boromir said, “and you were right: he well deserves some rest. I doubt he got much while he took care of me.”

 

“It would appear that this new friend of yours has more than a few secrets,” Faramir observed, though he could see that Boromir was not at ease speaking about what had transpired. How did a man face such a miracle? How could anyone? “But he got you back to us, for which I am grateful. However did you meet him?”

 

Boromir pulled on his armor again and sat down on the blankets on the floor, leaning against the wall. He silently agreed with Faramir, he was glad and grateful that he was back… he was finally home, with his brother. They may not have much time to celebrate being reunited, but they’d have time to talk, free of darkness for a moment. “How we met? That’s quite a tale, little brother,” He smiled when he saw Faramir’s mien, since becoming a Ranger Fari could be flustered when he called him that. He had missed him, only now he realized how much.

 

“I did not find Rivendell even with all the good research you did for me and that was probably wasted by me not caring for the details. I got stranded in the mountains and got landed in an Orc den, one like you never could imagine. A huge chasm full of wooden contraptions and breaking bridges…” Cheerfully Boromir recounted his misadventure among the Goblins and how they had met and journeyed together across the lone lands, of the hunt for Baggins with him having no idea who or what a Baggins even might be all the while Boromir did not mention the Ring, he could not bring himself to speak of the dreams, the lure and his own shame when it came to that thing. Instead he described the settlement of Bofur the Dwarf and how he had learned that Baggins was a Halfling, and how they had seen the lights on Amon Sul in the night. He could see that Faramir’s head perked up whenever he described the remains of Arnor, so he described their ride towards the ancient watchtower and finally their run-in with the Nazgul on Weathertop.

 

Sitting opposite of his brother, Faramir listened intently,reading between the lines of his brother's fascinating tale, watching him. No matter how harrowing the journey through the north must have been, the way Boromir’s eyes shone as he recounted the events, he knew his brother had thoroughly reveled in the adventure, in the deadly challenge. The events at Amon Sûl had him spellbound Faramir’s spine. Charging at a Nazgul – that was either insane or brave, if not both. Small wonder his brother liked this dwarf, it was the kind of crazy courage he appreciated in his comrades. When Boromir came to their stand against the Warg riders, Faramir shuddered; it was so much like his brother to do such a thing and place himself between the enemy and whomever needed protection, never caring how many foes he want up against. Boromir could be more stubborn than a King with all his armies at his back. And Boromir went on with the story, telling him of the huge Orc leader. Bolg, whom he had mentioned during their ride.

 

“What a beast.” Boromir looked at him. “Huge and ugly. His name was Bolg but he certainly wasn’t the brightest. Kíli knew him – old enemies of sorts.‘ _I remember you… Kíli unda Thorin.’”_ Boromir did a fair imitation of the Orc’s rumble, though there was a grim edge in his voice. “He got to Kíli, spoke of the battle where Fíli – his older brother – was killed.”

 

“He called him Kíli unda Thorin?” Here Faramir interrupted his brother for the first time. “I thought it was Kíli unda Dari?” The Ranger was fairly fluent in the different Orc tongues, and he recognised the words indicating ancestry in the way the orcs would express it.

 

“I told you, Bolg wasn’t exactly bright. Thorin was Kíli’s late uncle, if I understood all he told me right. You know me, little brother – I hate genealogies, even of our own nobility. And Dwarven genealogy gets confusing, with all those names, Thorin, Thrain, Thrôr…”

 

Faramir had no problems at all to sort through the names and recognise them as the names of the Dwarven royal dynasty descended from Moria’s throne and Durin himself. He had read about them, the last dignitary that had been at the court of King Thrór had left quite extensive letters and notes on his stay at the Lonely Mountain and on the state of the dwarven dynasty. While much of his longwinded wordings to Belecthor II Steward of Gondor, had been about the richest Kingdom of the North, he had included many many fascinating details on the Dwarves and their Kings, including a portrait of King Thrór and his family. Now that Faramir knew Kíli was related to Durin’s line he noticed that some of the details in his looks that made him stand out from other dwarves, actually were prevalent in his family. “Thorin Oakenshield was Kíli’s uncle?” he asked, trying to place Kíli correctly in the dynasty but not quite sure where to place him yet.

 

“That is the reason why I missed you most on my journey, Brother. You would have understood much so faster than I. But yes, Thorin Oakenshield was Kíli’s uncle, he spoke of a great quest to retake the Mountain Home, he went on when Thorin led their people home. He fell in battle not long after and Thorongil spoke of a Battle near the gates of Moria, that he fought. I take it I should know that name?”

 

“Thorin Oakenshield is a Dwarven hero bordering on a legend!” Faramir said. “He fought their greatest battles of the last two centuries: Azanulbizar and Dale. With him, the line of the old Kings under the Mountain was ended.”

 

“Dale that would be the Battle of the Five Armies…” Boromir had guessed it had simply been recorded under another name in the south. “But the line of the old Kings did not end that day, Fari, much as Dáin the second of his ugly name might want others to believe that.”

 

Faramir arched an eyebrow; it seemed his brother had learned more about the dwarves on his journey. “But… as far as knowledge serves and trade relations go, Dáin is King under the Mountain, of the younger line of Durin. If anyone of the older line had survived, they would have been crowned.”

 

“Thorin had two heirs – his sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli. I do not know how it happened exactly, but Dáin managed to put himself on the throne betraying Kíli of his birthright, causing a second exile among those dwarves who do not want to follow an usurper. The dwarves in Eriador are exiles, while Gimli, another dwarf I travelled with, was from Dáin’s court.”

 

It took Faramir a while to digest this, it was rare that he could bombard his brother with questions regarding a topic of lore and would get fascinating answers. Boromir launched happily into telling all he knew of the dwarves in Eriador, an ancient dwarf named Balin son of Fundin and his attempt to retake Moria and the fate of that expedition, along with the disputes that existed between the exiles and the Lonely Mountain. It was easy for Faramir to see that his brother was taking Kíli’s side of the argument, and he had to smother a smile once or twice. Kíli was Boromir’s friend, and thus in Boromir’s eyes he was _right_ , no matter what. What amazed Faramir most were the detailed descriptions of the deeps of Moria, and how much attention his brother had paid to the details of the legendary underground city. They said and talked long into the night, as Boromir shared much of his journey with his brother.

 

TRB

 

In the pale hours before dawn, when the Sun had yet to peek over the horizon, Faramir woke up, hearing his brother’s voice. He pushed himself up, blinking into the darkness of their room. “Burn… burn them all…” Boromir growled in his sleep, his voice low and strained.

 

Faramir got up, lighting the candle on the stone holder. In the faint light it cast he saw Boromir writher and shake in his sleep, the warrior’s powerful hands curled into the blanket, knuckles white. Kneeling down beside his brother, Faramir reached for his arm. “Boromir! Wake up!” Usually the touch would have been enough to startle Boromir into full waking, as Faramir well knew but Boromir did not react to his presence at all.

 

He grabbed both shoulders of the sleeping man, to shake him. Doing so was dangerous; startling Boromir like this had had Faramir with a knife at his throat before. But no shaking or calling could break Boromir out of his dreams, most of what he muttered was unintelligible to Faramir’s ear but now and then a word slipped in between. But if the shakes and sweat were indication those were no good dreams.

 

Letting go Faramir considered using a kindling, a small burn might be enough pain to break the dreams… but if Boromir did not react to touch, it was unlikely he would even feel the pain. What could do? What could cause this? He frowned; maybe the rapid healing had a side effect? Boromir had said he had slept for days on the boat. If so, only one person could give the answer to that – Kíli.

 

The Ranger rose, striding out of the room and down the broken stairwell towards the walls. One of the rangers stood not far away on the eastern bastion. Nearly as tall as Faramir and just impatiently trying to tie back his wild hair – Anarion. Faramir was not surprised to see him, Anarion would often take the dog’s watch, the hours before morning when mists obscured the sight and played tricks on the mind. He had keen eyes and was a good observer, rarely tricked by the light or the fogs. “Anarion, do you have seen Kíli?”

 

“Down with second watch, Captain,” Anarion replied at once, he pointed down towards the guard post under the arches, where a fire was ablaze in a tripod and the men of second watch were sitting close by. The second watch consisted of troops that were to stand ready in case a nightly attack overwhelmed the guards on the wall too swiftly for the men from the main barracks to react. Second watch was meant to buy enough time for the main garrison to be roused. It was a boring task but one that was necessary. Faramir walked down the stairs into the courtyard. Among the tall soldiers, he perceived a shorter figure sitting on a broken pillar.

 

“… he ducked under the attack and before I could see it, he had rammed his sword right into Bolg’s chest! The huge Gundabad Orc stumbled back and Boromir yanked his sword free, before beheading him in one swift stroke…”

 

Faramir was not surprised to find the Men sitting on the rubble around the tripod; hanging on Kíli's every word, listening to how Boromir had fought a huge Orc leader from the north. He shook his head; even worried though he was he had to admit that the Dwarf knew how to tell a good war-story, keeping the attention of his listeners. That it was a tale about the revered Captain of Gondor certainly did not harm the story. He strode into the circle, he had not time to waste, not with Boromir trapped in that unwaking sleep. “Kíli?” He wished he knew how to properly address the Dwarf; the short name felt insufficient sometimes. Or maybe it was because he did not know where to place him in the hierarchy of Osgiliath? With the soldiers and his Rangers Faramir was used to calling them just by their names, or sometimes nicknames, no ranks or familial titles attached, but with Kíli he could not quite assume that he was just another of their warriors, but he could not place him otherwise.

 

The Dwarven warrior looked up to him. “Lord Faramir?” he asked, hopping off the broken pillar, taking his sword that had been leaning against the stone beside him.

 

“Lord Boromir has need of you,” Faramir said, not wanting to discuss this in front of the assembled troops.

 

Without wasting time, Kíli followed him across the yard. “His injuries?” he asked once they were out of earshot. “He is still recovering from Amon Hen.”

 

“I am not sure,” Faramir replied as they mounted the stairs that led up to their place. He could hear a groan even through the heavy wooden door. “Something is haunting Boromir’s sleep. I tried to wake him, but could not.”

 

“His nightmares; he had them during most of our journey.” Kíli replied softly as they went inside he at once hurried to Boromir’s side, and knelt down on the floor beaide the oblivious warrior. Boromir’s face shone tinged with glistening sweat; he spoke unintelligible words in his dreams.,

 

Surprised Faramir saw Kíli settling in his position, gently clasping Boromir’s hand in his, as he began to softly hum a strange tune, slowly the hum became stronger, more pronounced until Kíli began to sing, his dark voice softly carrying the words in a language that was foreign to Faramir. But even as he could not understand the words, carried by the deep voice they invoked pictures of wild lone lands and mountains under strange moons, and of heart wrenching sadness.

 

Boromir stilled, his powerful frame calmed as he slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep. Faramir sat down; his back to the wall, relieved to see the dream that had held his brother spellbound had broken. He let the tunes wash over him, maybe it was the strange harmony of the words in a tongue so utterly foreign that made the songs so calming, maybe it was the way they could carry the soul away. Even if his waking mind found himself wandering to cold, forgotten places in the wild lands.

The world is grey, the mountains old,  
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;  
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:  
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;  
The shadow lies upon his tomb  
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.  
But still the sunken stars appear  
In dark and windless Mirrormere;  
There lies his crown in water deep,  
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

The last song made Faramir look up, it was the first that had words in Westron. Kíli still sat where he had settled down, his pose relaxed. Boromir’s sleep was unstirring, he was snoring softly.

“Will he be alright?” Faramir asked softly, he doubted that anything could startle Boromir at the moment.

 

“I hope so,” Kíli replied, in the same low voice. “I had hoped that the dreams would fade when the exhaustion left him, but… who knows what he went through before he reached Amon Hen?”

 

“At least your presence helps to chase them away. I did not think of trying to talk to him… or sing.” It was something unusual; Faramir would guess most warrior would childish trying something like singing to feverish man.

 

“My Uncle used to do that, when my brother and me were but dwarflings and were frightened,” A small smile curled Kíli’s lips and his dark eyes softened. “His voice was all we needed to know we were safe, even when we were old enough to defend ourselves.”

 

And he had come here, like it was a brother injured and needing help, no grumbles nor questions asked. Faramir wondered, most books claimed that dwarves were greedy by nature and not a very friendly kind all around, often only caring for treasures and their craft, though brave and fiercely loyal too. No book had ever mentioned that they were kind and caring, protective of their friends, but these were the traits Faramir perceived in Kíli, more than anything else. “I never got the chance to thank you for saving my brother, for bringing him home.”

 

The Dwarf raised his hand, clearly forestalling more words, the gesture had a calm and commanding air, that did not quite fit with the lone warrior that Kíli was, like there was a stronger persona hidden beneath the shadow of the wanderer “There is no need for thanks, Lord Faramir,” he said firmly. “I would not leave a friend to die like this, not when there still was a chance.

 

TRB

 

An avalanche of small rubble slipped down the planks that had once been floorboards in a richer man’s house, filling the entrance of the old cellar up nicely. “That should take any fun out of climbing through here.” Kíli grinned, satisfied. While most of the day had gone into fortifying more holes and tunnels, he felt that they were getting somewhere. The ruined city was not exactly a fortress – the former capital had never been a full-fledged fortress – but it still could serve as one if necessary. Celanost certainly was more of a fortress than any other part of the city had ever been. And with all the rat-holes that could be used to get past the walls and stone blockades, clogged up the enemy would be forced to have his troops truly storm the wall. Sometimes, Kíli found it sad to see the city so utterly ruined; this had once been a gorgeous city, the art and beauty still echoing in the remnant buildings that had not been defiled by the Orcs. He had never seen the city when it had been capital, but when he had first come here, nearly a century ago the destruction had not been so utter and total.

 

“Kíli?” Anarion’s clear voice interrupted his musings. “You seem pensive; you sometimes look at this city… like you are searching for something.”

 

“Just memories, Anarion,” Kíli rose from where he had been squatting beside the cellar entrance.

 

“You have been here before, have you?” Anarion asked, he had noticed during the last days that Kíli often referred to parts of the city by name very precisely, and was navigating the ruins with an unerring sense of direction.

 

“Aye, it’s more than a century now, that we came upriver with the other boatpeople,” Kíli’s eyes strayed to the river that reflected the light of the sinking sun like liquid fire. “hauling the quarry ships upriver. When we brought the first boat here, I thought your people must be repairing this splendid city…” He could still remember his amazement at seeing a city with so much beautiful stone work. It had washed away his exhausting, the burn of the ropes in his hands, the aching body from the brutal haul upstream.

 

“You used to haul stone shipments for the construction of Celanost?” Anarion knew he should not be surprised, the dwarf had to be older than all of them, but still… a century ago, that was old history.

 

“At first, when the overseers found we were good blacksmiths, we were sent from the hauling ships to making and repairing tools.” Kíli smiled up at him. “Maybe one day we will see the day to open that quarry again and rebuilt this city.”

 

Anarion laughed. “It is true what they say of your people, Kíli, you are builders, always thinking of works to be done.” It was a beautiful dream to rebuild the ancient citadel of the stars, the former Capital of Gondor, unlikely though it was.

 

“And this builder better gives his evening report to Lord Faramir,” Kíli replied. “Have the others get some rest, the day was hard on them.”

 

When Kíli came to the broken tower where the brothers had their quarters, he found Boromir there was well, they had been going over a map and some missives, Kíli could only guess that this was about the reinforcements that should arrive any day now. The Captain gestured him to sit down with them. “How did the works progress?” He asked, rolling out a plan of the city on the flat stone between them.

 

“Reasonably well,” Kíli said, “the riverside still has most problems, there were too many tunnels reaching under the river to the other side, along with sewers, far reaching cellars and so forth.” He began to mark all the blocked passages on the map, along with other problems he had spotted.

 

When he was finished, Boromir packed the map away and Kíli was ready to rise and leave the brothers to their discussion, but Boromir reached for his arm, holding him back. “Stay,” he said in an unusually tense voice that left little doubt that there was something else on the Captain’s mind that he wanted to speak off. But he seemed hesitant to begin.

 

“There's something else, isn't there?” Kíli asked, when the silence grew uncomfortable. He noticed the way Boromir’s shoulders were tense and his hands were firmly clenched around the dagger he had used to point out positions on the map. The way he grabbed the weapon was so hard, like he wanted to break it. “Something is troubling you.”

 

Boromir exhaled sharply, putting the dagger aside with an impatient motion. “How did you save my life?” he asked with his typical directness. “I have seen the scars – I should not be alive, let alone as well-healed as I am. That sword of yours… it is some kind of powerful artifact…”

 

“And you have learned to be wary of those.” After Boromir’s experience with the Ring there it was small wonder that he was careful when it came to any kind of artifact, Kíli understood where he was coming from.Reaching beside him, where he had placed his weapons, he lifted his sword and pulled it from the leather sheath. placing it on the ground between them. The white polished hilt shone eerily in the torchlight. “Many years ago, after the Battle of Five Armies…” He saw Faramir’s frown and added, “You call it the Battle of Dale, I believe. After that battle, Bard the Bowman, the man who shot Smaug when he attacked Lake Town, gave me one of the Dragon’s fangs. He said that my family had such a long and bitter feud with the beast, he wished me to have it. This”—he traced his fingers along the white dragon’s tooth—“is the fang of an ancient and powerful fire drake: one of the most magical materials there is. When I received the tooth, I had no idea how much of Smaug’s powerful magic was trapped inside.”

 

“But to do such a thing… such a miracle, it would take skill and…” Faramir was not quite sure how to say it, but the raw power of the tooth could not explain what happened. He had been permitted the read the tomes of power and magic of ancient Numenór, the forbidden writings of long forgotten, powerful kings, in their study he and his father, Denethor, had even found some kind of understanding. Amongst these books there had been a tome, written in ancient elvish that held several treatises on magical materials and their use and power. No amount of raw power could create any miracle, power needed shape and form, control to be used in any meaningful way.

 

“No, it can’t,” Kíli agreed. “My uncle had wielded an Elvish blade,  Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, which had a Dragon’s tooth for a hilt – a powerful magical weapon. It gave me the idea to do something similar. But shaping this material into a productive result… I was too young an arcane smith to even try. It took me twenty years: twenty years of wandering, of learning from those still skilled in the art of creating magical things. But slowly I learned how to shape the hilt, how to carve the runes into it, how to bind the runes to the tooth’s power, so I could call upon them.” His dark eyes met Boromir’s gaze. “The night you first held this, after fighting the Rider, you saw some of them.”

 

When Kíli’s fingers touched the hilt, he felt the familiar warm spark rise from the polished material, the _presence_ the weapon had in his mind, it was a part of him. Winterflame sang to him, whispering the echoes of the many runes it held. Focusing on the soft echoes Kíli touched one of the runes with his mind and a band of icy blue runes shone on the white hilt, seemingly called by his touch alone.

 

“Flame and Ice and… something about a light in darkness.” Faramir leaned forward as he tried a rough translation of the rune band. “So the runes gain power from the material of the tooth?”

 

“Basically, yes. The blade is the other part of the artifact – the more complex the hilt became, the more spells or magic were woven into it, the more it would reject any simple blade. Eventually I journeyed north, beyond the reaches of Carn Dum, where an ancient one-handed smith was rumored to live near one of the silent fire mountains. He had little liking for Dwarves, and I had to work hard to earn his acceptance of me. He showed me how to forge a blade that would be the counter to the hilt and add to the power, not detract from it. If the hilt is the fire, the blade is the storm that fans the flames to it. Binding power into a sword while it is made is like speaking runes into a blade, like carving them into molten lava… It will burn you utterly, crush you, and when you come out, you will have passed the crucible…” Kíli saw the empty expressions in the faces of both brothers and very nearly laughed. Among dwarves smiths might talk of such things, of the experience, even those who had very little of the gift would be eager to share the moments when they had managed to gain hold of the flame. But to the two Gondorians it made no sense at all. “When I finally finished this blade and was ready to put both pieces together, the one-handed one showed me one last thing, one secret set of runes that would only work with a material as dark as the Dragon’s tooth and a blade so light like this one. He called it ‘The Gift we Dread,’ and he told me that few had ever dared to use it.”

 

“The spell that saved my brother,” Faramir whispered. “Would you… would you show us?”

 

Kíli closed his eyes, gently tapping into the hilt, allowing the runes to appear without being truly called upon. Faramir’s eyes scanned the intricate band of Tengwar writings and he paled. “This… this is a sacrificial spell, is it not?”

 

“Not quite.” Kíli could see the alarm in Faramir’s eyes and Boromir tensing anew, he had not wish to worry them with the true nature of the powerful and dangerous spell. Nor did he wish distrust between them, not with their friendship having become something he truly cared about. “There are no strings attached, no price asked from you…” He understood that they worried about a price that might haunt them, too many stories warned against the gifts of magic because the price they incurred was terrible. It was true for this spell too in a way, if spoken by the wrong person; it had not been for him and wanted to put them at ease without going into details. He hoped they would accept it had worked, and that things were alright again, no price asked nor any strings attached.

 

“Because it already took from you what was given to my brother.” Faramir was not sure if he should be horrified or awed – awed that this Dwarf was able to create things of such horrible power, things that should belong to legends or bygone ages, or horrified at the price it must have extracted. He looked up, meeting the Dwarf’s eyes. “I don't know how I could ever thank you for such a sacrifice…” he trailed off. This went beyond a simple life-debt owed to someone, and he hardly knew how to express it.

 

“Please,” Kíli interrupted him, gently but firmly, “I already told you that no thanks were necessary. Boromir is alive and that is all the thanks I’ll ever need.”

 

Boromir had been silent, taking in what had been said. He had of course seen the pale streaks in Kíli’s dark mane but had not been sure if he simply had never noticed before. Now he knew why they were there and the very idea frightened him. He did not fear death, had risked his life in battle often, stood between others and certain death, but… he did not know what kind of courage it took to willingly sacrifice some of the time one was given to safe another. How much had Kíli cared for their friendship to go as far? He vividly recalled that dark moment in Amon Hen, Kíli’s tears on his cold hand, his own words, a goodbye for a friend… “Why?” he asked in a hush. While they were friends and all, Kíli had chosen him over others who might one day be in the same situation and closer to him.

 

Kíli rose slowly, walking over to the arched window of the room. “When we journeyed, you often spoke of your little brother, Boromir. You never said it but it was evident how much you missed him. I too was a little brother once…” His voice became husky; he had to push the words out. He never could speak of Fíli easily. “My brother… Fíli… He fell in battle, defending the Mountain home, defending his King.” He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “No one should have to bury their brother,” he finally said.

 

TRB

****

Five days had passed since Boromir’s return to Osgiliath, days that had been busy with preparations for the enemy’s attack that could not be far away any more and with long worrisome nightly vigils for Faramir. Two days after Boromir had taken command of Osgiliath, there had been a short message from their father, which was always enough to dampen any good mood. Fortunately, the Steward was overjoyed to have his beloved son back and what orders had been given with the letter had seen a liberal interpretation by Boromir. Faramir agreed with his brother’s decision to do what was necessary and later discuss this with Denethor and he knew that contrary were he to attempt such things, Boromir would get away with doing so, because their father rarely found fault in his doings.

 

It was not the war which Boromir was pursuing so aggressively that bothered Faramir. He understood Boromir's reasons for doing so. It was other things that worried him. Ever since his return, Boromir had been plagued with nightmares.. The first night Faramir had woken to Boromir screaming in his sleep, and the night terrors had returned every night since. Boromir would not speak of his dreams when he awoke, but the haunted expression in his eyes was enough to worry Faramir. And he was not alone in his worry – he could see that Kíli silently shared his apprehension, their fears growing with each night that the dreams came back.

 

Faramir looked up the ramparts where his brother stood listening to the report of one of their scouts. He also spotted Kíli a few steps away, a raven perched on his outstretched hand. In the last two days, Faramir had twice seen Kíli with a silken-feathered bird on his hand. Faramir had no love for any crow or raven – too many of them were servants of the Enemy – and yet, in a calm moment, Boromir had told him that Kíli could talk to the beasts. It sounded like a fairytale, a story of long forgotten times. He was not quite sure what to make of it, Boromir certainly believed it, but it was a little too far-fetched for Faramir’s mind. He knew that there were Rangers that were said to be able to talk to beasts, some people claimed the same of him, but no bear or wolf as of yet had talked back or told him secrets. He also recalled reading that Raven was a symbol attached to King Thrór and his rule of Erebor, so maybe Kíli liked those birds for familial reasons more than anything else.

 

Faramir’s thoughts were interrupted when he saw Boromir leave the rampart and march in his direction. “Kíli,” he said to the dwarf who had followed him, “find Veryan and tell him to have half a banner ready to ride within the hour,” he ordered.

 

“Half a banner?” Faramir closed the remaining distance to his brother. It was quite a strong number to call out, a banner was a full Gondorian infantery unit of 144 warriors plus an additional 26 archers. A halfbanner was a fighting strength to be reckoned with already. “What did the scouts report?”

 

“Haradrim troops moving through Ithilien, headed for the Black Gates, most likely. They are following the old Harad road,” Boromir told him. “I’ll need you and thirty of your Rangers as well. We won’t let them reach their Master.”

 

The news banished all other worries from Faramir’s mind. “Agreed. I will take Anarion and his men; they are the best and swiftest I have.”

 

TRB

 

“Mumâk!” The shout echoed through the hillside forest of Ithilien, interrupting Faramir’s first inspections of the two captured strangers. A giant Haradrim beast broke through the underbrush, smashing through the cover of their left flank group. Sprinting past the captives, Faramir raised his bow, sending the arrows in rapid succession at the beast and more at its leader, the Haradrim guiding the Mumâk fell from his second shot, while three more arrows only hit the thick grey skin of the beast.

 

Bereft of its rider the Oliphant began to rampage, huge feet coming down on bush and fighters alike. Faramir saw   the familiar agile figure of Anarion skidder downhill and grab a man who stood frozen in the approach the beast to push him away. They would never be fast enough; Faramir pulled another arrow from his quiver and bent the bow. The arrow flew hitting the Mumâk right in the eye. The beast collapsed and Anarion jumped out of reach before he could be crushed by the sheer mass of the Oliphant. He came back to his feet, raising his fist towards Faramir, congratulations and thanks all in one. There were a few more cheers for Faramir’s lucky shot, while was simply relieved it had worked, he had not lost one of his men.

 

“Anarion, up here,” he called for the younger Ranger, who came hastening uphill, tucking away some willful dark locks that had come loose during the fight.

 

“Captain?” he asked when he reached Faramir.

 

The Ranger Captain pointed towards the two smallish figures, huddled together. “We need to bring them to camp, Anarion. Bind them, but gently and cloak their eyes.”

 

“We are here on an errand of utmost importance,” the younger one of the two spoke up, as Anarion tied his hand behind the back. “we travelled with nine companions from Rivendell. One was from Gondor, his name was Boromir.”

 

Could it be? Could these be some of Boromir’s companions? Faramir carefully schooled his features to stillness, the same mask he usually wore when confronted with his father. “A strange claim for a stranger to make, and one I will want to see proven,” his eyes going past the captives to Anarion, who luckily wore the hood and shawl that hid his face and could give nothing away. He saw the nod and knew the other Ranger had understood the hint and would remain silent.

 

TRB

 

The caves of Henneth Annun were the hideout Faramir had always liked to think of as a place of calm, but today it filled him with unrest. Or maybe the sounds of the sprawling caves echoed the restless pacing of his heart. Each tickle of water ringing through the caverns like the rapid beating in his chest. His eyes went back to the two diminutive captives sitting in a corner of the incapacious cave: two Halflings he and his men had captured on their third day in Ithilien. They claimed they had set out from Rivendell with his brother, and then separated from him during an Orc attack near the Falls of Rauros. Their description of the attack closely matched his brother’s relating of the events and still, it left Faramir with the feeling that Frodo was not entirely honest with him. There was something the Halfling did not say, that he deliberately left out, and it made Faramir wonder again, what had transpired there, for he felt the same hesitancy to speak about it in his brother. Something beyond a major fight with Orcs had transpired near the waterfalls, something that all involved seemed to dread.

 

“We will soon know if you have been speaking the truth,” Faramir had told Frodo Baggins, “and what role your slimy companion is playing here.” He stated, the creature that had yet to give a name beyond murmurings and curses was held in another cave, guarded by Faramir’s Rangers after they caught it fishing in one of the pools. The two Halflings looked at him with annoyance, or maybe there was a hint of resignation in them as well and he left them to their own thoughts.

 

 He had found Anarion, who had been giving two of his group a telling off for not having been swift enough during the Mumâk encounter. One of them had frozen up when the giant creature had charged and his comrade had not noticed swiftly enough on his retreat, that his friend was hanging behind. While Anarion did not berate the men loudly, his anger was all the more audible in the low and sharp words he had for them. Faramir sighed, he’d have to address that later, Anarion had been young when he had won his place amongst the Rangers and pushing himself hard ever since, in fact, his 24 years did not make him much less young. “Anarion, I need you to find Veryan for me and swiftly, he should still be with the troops, tracking the bulk of the Haradrim forces,” Faramir had said, after sending the two unfortunate archers away. He had been careful to never mention Boromir’s name. He did not want them to know that he’d confirm their claim with the very Man they named. And he knew Anarion would be swift and discreet on this errand.

 

The very presence of the two Halflings left Faramir restless. Maybe they were the ones whom the dream had spoken of...which spoke in favor of their claim to having travelled with Boromir from Rivendell. . On soft feet, he went back to the cavern where the two Halflings were sitting, keeping to the shadows of the caves, where it was easy to hide. “We have to tell them, Mister Frodo,” he heard the stocky gardener say. “You said for yourself that Boromir gave his life to buy you time to flee.”

 

“We don’t know that, Sam,” Frodo responded in a low voice. “He held off the Orcs to give me time to flee… The others might have reached him in time.”

 

“So you left my brother behind to save yourself?” Faramir asked, both Hobbits jumping up when they realised that he was there. He might have spoken less harshly but the thought of Boromir nearly dying was one still prone to shake him easily.

 

Both Halflings drew closer to each other, the stocky gardener moving in front of his Master like to shield him. “He told him to run,” He said defensively.

 

So Boromir had stood between them and the Orcs, sending them to flee while he fought. Faramir nearly smiled; this was so much like his brother. He’d never allow someone to come to harm if he could protect them. From his very youth on, Boromir had shouldered that task for his people. Only, this time he had nearly paid with his life for protecting those who could or would not fight their own battles. Faramir had seen the scars and he still worried at what price his brother’s life might have been saved. Kíli might play it down, say he was fine and that a few grey streaks meant little in the long lifespan of a dwarf. He even had joked that if he kept going like this he might be the first of his line in generations to not die a violent death… but Faramir was not convinced, Kíli was uneasy with thanks or gratitude, or maybe somewhere along the path of his life he had come to not wanting thanks, so he downplayed his own deeds. But he had noticed the pain in the dwarf’s gaze a few times, the tiredness too… what had happened to him that he would go so far for the friendship with someone not even of his own people? “Was he alone, or was there someone with him?” he inquired, staring down on the directly, making the gardener take a step back and bump into his master.

 

“There was someone – a friend,” Frodo replied. “A Dwarf: Kíli son of Dari. I do not know how but your brother befriended him on his journey north.”

 

Faramir leaned against the cave wall, giving up on towering the two small ones for the moment, allowing the Halflings to be a bit more at ease. He knew that Boromir had been travelling with eight companions, though he sometimes spoke of nine, including Kíli. Why had none of them been with him? “What of your other companions?” he asked.

 

“We do not know,” Frodo replied. “We heard fighting all over the forest, but did not see them.”

 

He could not hear the rest of the answer, because there was a great commotion in the main caves, as dozens of soldiers poured in, greeting their comrades, weapons being stashed away and the jingle of armor mixed with heavy steps. Over all the noise and he could clearly hear his brother’s impatient voice. “Veryan, I want an answer. I pulled back the troops poised to strike on your insistence and I will not bear one more moment of delay in your answer.”

 

“It was my doing, brother,” Faramir said, stepping outside and into the tunnel that connected the caverns.

 

His voice was nearly drowned out by Sam’s shout: “Boromir!”

 

His brother’s eyes widened when he heard the voice, disbelief warring with a smile as he left the Swan Knight standing where he was and pushed past Faramir through the narrow entrance of the cave. “Frodo, Sam! I am relieved to see you alive and well.” There was genuine happiness and relief echoing in Boromir’s voice as he squatted down to hug both Halflings, who hugged him back. Sam’s hug more reticent, while Frodo enthusiastically embraced Boromir.

 

“Boromir, we feared you had perished at Amon Hen.” Frodo’s smile was a relieved one, holding honest affection for the Gondorian Captain. He pulled back a little positively beaming at him. “I am so glad you survived.” Faramir was amazed at the enthusiasm he could see shine Frodo’s eyes, the young Halfling was truly happy and glad to see Boromir alive. And Boromir was glad too, only Faramir perceived the way his brother looked down for a moment, a gesture of shyness… shame… that was very unlike the brother he knew.

 

“There were so many Orcs. What happened there? Where are the others?” Frodo asked his hand still on Boromir’s shoulder.

 

“They are not with you?” Boromir asked, his head flinching back slightly. “I had hoped they went with you after the fighting was over. Kíli was there to save me from the Orcs, but we only knew the others left Amon Hen before we could find them.”

 

“No, we went alone,” Frodo explained. “I hope the others are alright.” His voice sank to a hush. “I really hope they escaped and will be alright.” It was all of worry the Halfling allowed himself, Faramir noticed, because when Frodo looked up again, his mien was calm… no there was a surprising smile in his eyes.

 

“We were captured while we crossed your land east of here, Boromir,” he said with a small, comradely poke against Boromir’s arm “You did not exaggerate when you said that Faramir was a Ranger as good as Strider.”

 

“Now I know why my brother has sent for me,” Boromir observed, tilting his head to look up to Faramir, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

 

Faramir arched an eyebrow in question, but before he could respond, the stout Hobbit huffed..

 

“He thinks that we are Orc spies,” Sam pointed out sourly, causing Boromir to truly  laugh this time.

 

“You will have put him right about that.” Now Frodo laughed too, and for a moment the two just shared the joke that had gone partially on Sam’s and Faramir’s account. When they fell silent, none of them spoke right away. They exchanged a glance and Faramir noticed how both Frodo and Boromir tensed at nearly the same time. “You can’t go on alone, Frodo. The Enemy is building up a veritable army all along the mountains.” Boromir said, his voice more firm, the warrior speaking, making plans on how to go ahead.

 

“You can’t come with us, Boromir.” Frodo crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Your people will need you when the army we saw cross the Black Gates reaches your cities. They will need you to defend them. You always said you had to return to fight for them.”

 

“And I believed you traveled with others able to aid you in your task, Frodo,” Boromir protested. “I will not send you alone to Mordor. Not while I still draw breath.”

 

A gentle smile broke the Hobbit’s determined mien. “I know – you’d lay down your life for any of us,” he said with great warmth, “but… you know why it can’t be. You know what nearly happened in Amon Hen. And even with Kíli with you…”

 

All color drained from Boromir’s face, and Faramir was surprised to see horror and deep shame in his brother’s features. From one moment to the next the proud Captain gave way to a warrior marred by self-loathing and shame, his hands shook and he made a fist to hide it. “You are right, Frodo,” Boromir admitted in a hoarse voice. “I cannot be trusted where your task is concerned. But I will find you all the help I can.”

 

Suddenly, the Halfling stepped up to Boromir to squeeze his shoulder, a strange gesture from someone so small. “I do trust you, Boromir. I know you are stronger than you believe of yourself. But _He_ knows you – _He_ knows your weak spots. You fought _Him_ so long and hard, _He_ must have marked you as a major obstacle. Your people do need you, now more than ever before and I have to continue my task. You let me go once. Can you do it again?”

 

There was a strange power the small creature wielded over Boromir, Faramir had to admit. Boromir had closed his eyes, his face a mien of intense concentration, but he accepted the Halfling’s verdict with a slow nod. “We will bring you to Osgiliath and I will get you across the River there. You will have an easier passage that way.”

 

TRB

 

Aglaran had been set to watch the wretched creature they had captured down by the pool. Most of the time, the thing, it was neither Man, nor Orc, nor any other race he could identify crouched cursing and whimpering in the corner of the cave. Smallish and two-legged it might have been an emaciated Orc only that the face was all wrong, the eyes too large and the skull to evenly shaped. The Ranger did not really want to know what kind of wretched thing this truly was, maybe an escapee from Southern Mirkwood or a miserable cretin from the eastern lands. In the commotion after Lord Boromir’s hurried arrival, he had been extra attentive that the captive did not get away. “Aglaran.” He saw a familiar short figure come down the cavern path. Kíli traced his hand along the stone as he walked, like he was studying the very rocks surrounding him. “Lord Faramir said you had captured some kind of creature?”

 

The Ranger pointed inside the narrow cavern that had only one exit. “Take a look. I still think it is some kind of Orc.”

 

When Kíli stepped past him, the mangled thing spat at him. “Nasty, nasty Dwarfse, strangling poor Smeagol…”

 

So this thing had met Kíli before, Aglaran thought as the creature muttered and wailed at the walls. Where might they have met and how had the thing escaped if it had been strangled? But before he could ask, Lord Boromir joined them. He cast a disdainful glance at the captive. “Aglaran, tie this thing up and keep it gagged; we are leaving shortly,” he ordered.

 

The Ranger nodded and turned to grab the ropes, the mangled thing  twisted under his hands as he tied him up, trying to bite him. Slippery and agile as the creature was, Aglaran decided that it might be wiser to transport it in a sack, where it could not slip away.

 

Meanwhile, Boromir had taken Kíli aside, leading him into one of the empty caverns. Now that they were alone, Boromir allowed himself to let go of the strong mask he had upheld for his friends. “Frodo is here, with Sam. None of the others made it out of Amon Hen, it seems.” He needed to say it, to speak it out loud, maybe to make it real, to deal with it.

 

“Or they were separated from Frodo just as we were,” Kíli replied. “What do we need to do?”

 

That was his friend, no doubts, clear words and ready to act at once. In the middle of this, of the nagging feeling of the Ring once more all too close, Kíli was a rock to lean on for Boromir. “I need you to stay with Frodo for the duration of his journey with us. Guard him, make sure no one harms him.” Boromir sought Kíli’s gaze, green eyes meeting black. Silently Boromir pleaded that Kíli might understand the danger they were faced with once more. “I entrust his safety to you. If anyone, especially me, is trying to harm him, you will cut them down.” _Even me._ It remained unsaid, but it was what Boromir wanted from his friend, to again be his shield between the Ring, the betrayal and the lure calling for him.

 

The Dwarf met his eyes steadily. “You have my word.” He said, his voice warm and reassuring, he would do what was needful, no matter how hard it would become.

 

TRB

 

It was only on the march back to Osgiliath that Faramir had a chance to catch up to Boromir. Not since his brother had left Gondor more than a year ago had he felt such disquiet. Before they had left the caves of Henneth Annun, he had witnessed a short conversation between Kíli and Boromir. He had not wished to spy on them, but had been packing up fresh arrow bundles before heading out in the next cavern. He disliked having spied on his brother, and still… what he had heard had shaken him. _“I entrust his safety to you. If anyone, especially me, is trying to harm him, you will cut them down.”_ Boromir had instructed Kíli, and the dwarf had confirmed these orders without protest.

 

Faramir had felt a little insulted by these words. Did his brother not trust their own troops anymore or their authority over them? But then he recalled the pain and shame on Boromir’s face during his conversation with Frodo. Whatever had happened on Amon Hen, it had deeply shaken and hurt his brother. Kíli knew, maybe had been witness to the secret, and thus Boromir trusted him with it further. It still felt strange to see his brother place trust in someone else before Faramir. He nudged his gelding into a canter and caught up with Boromir at the head of the column. “Our father will not be happy if you let two strangers walk unsupervised in our lands, when they wish to go east,” he said. “Especially if they carry something…” He knew their father had whispered of such things in the past months. Faramir had tried to not listen to the murmurs of power, of a _gift_ of a mighty weapon, and his heart had warned him to try and speak of it to Denethor. But whatever his father had hoped Boromir would find North, it was most likely now with the two Halflings.

 

“Then he best not learn of it any time soon.” Boromir’s eyes were focused ahead, where they could see the silhouette of Osgiliath rise from the mists. “Not until Frodo is well on his way.”

 

“You do not wish for him to detain them… or learn what secret they carry,” Faramir’s words were much of a guess, but one he was sure about.

 

“Aye,” Boromir replied. “It would bring harm to him… to all of us.”

 

“You never went so openly against our father before you left.” Faramir wished he could stop and talk to his brother with more time, ask him what this was about, what dreadful secret he had carried from the North. But this was nothing he could ask while they were on their ride. Still he was unable to hold back all his questions. “You have changed. What happened to you?”

 

Boromir looked at him and there was a haunted expression in his eyes. “I was broken, Fari,” he said softly. “My very hopes turned into foul betrayal. But for one friend who stood between me and dishonor, between me and death, between me and despair, I would have fallen.”

 

Faramir’s hand closed hard around the reins of his gelding, as he stared at his brother, disbelieving what he had just heard. It could not be with all the flaws his brother may have, dishonor and betrayal were two things he would never suffer… and yet, Faramir saw the pain shining so clearly in his brother’s eyes and the shadow of self-doubt that marred his proud face. Faramir wanted to ask for more, wanted to learn what had been done to his beloved brother to bring such an expression to his eyes, such words to his lips, but the sound of a bronze horn cut short their conversation. The horns of Osgiliath rang out into the night, signaling for help. The city was under attack.

 

 


	14. Blood on the river

** You all were right, a chapter was missing, so here it is. **

 

** Chapter 13: Blood on the river **

****

The raven landed on the huge granite boulder beside Dwalin, cawing loudly to gain his attention. Dwalin had been resting, sitting comfortably leaning against another rock; his legs stretched pout, enjoying the rest after a long day of marching. His fire was at the outer edge of the huge nightly camp, not for the wish of distance to the many warriors camped in the rocky valley but for needing to be alone for a while, to think. The black feather bird cawed again and Dwalin tossed a bit of venison at the bird. “You’ll bring news, I think.” He was sure that the bird carried a message. They usually did, and by now Dwalin was well used to the black-winged company he’d have at times. But it had rarely been as often as it was now. The first message had reached him in autumn; the crow had actually been carrying a written letter from Kíli, who had penned the missive before leaving Rivendell more than four months ago around the end of October.

 

Opening his pack, Dwalin carefully retrieved the message he had read so often since that day. The small parchment was covered tightly with Kíli’s clear hand. The first few lines concerned the Riders that had been hunting across Eriador for Baggins, and the good news that Bilbo was safe among the Elves. But that had been the only good news in the entire letter. Kíli spoke of a darkness rising, of war, and of an errand he had accepted for Lord Elrond of Rivendell. The last was enough to have Dwalin truly worried; the Elves rarely concerned themselves with the affairs of the world and when they did, the situation had to be very troublesome indeed. It was something Dwalin had disliked, he knew that Kíli would not say no when being asked for help, he had aided the Elves before when their troubles with the Orcs had become too much or when they had needed someone to guide them through the deeps of the orc strongholds of the North. Always dedicated to protecting others Kíli would take risks that left Dwalin with fear for his life, sometimes he wondered when Kíli’s luck would run out… it was a day Dwalin feared more than anything else. But the next part of the letter had truly shaken him:

 

_A Shadow is rising in the east, my friend. We both should not be surprised it has finally come to this; the signs were all too visible for many long years already. And before this storm we all must either stand or whither, yet if the Shadow is not defeated, our very world will be lost. I will go south and join those who fight the darkness. In my heart, I know that you of all people will understand. I have sent a letter to Narvi and the council in Cardemir as well; it will clear the path for Daroin to become the Lord of Cardemir should I not return._

“No, you won’t die and leave my boy to succeed you,” Dwalin had growled at the letter, startling the winged messenger perched close by. He did not even want to think of the possibility were the last true Prince of the House of Durin to perish, nor that Kíli held a good deal of affection for Daroin and had groomed him as a successor.

 

_I know you will be angry by now, my friend, and I ask your forgiveness for making this decision without taking further council with you. My mind has been made up about it for years now but time is running short. The situation south is dire: the kingdoms of Men stand with their back to the wall. The Elves prepare themselves to leave this world; their path leads away from these shores, and our brethren are hardly concerned._

The words had made Dwalin shiver – they still did – and it was all too easy to imagine the story that would live on: how the last of Durin’s line, the last Prince of the Dwarves, had fought beside Men to the bitter end. It was a brave, honorable way to go any of their great House would have chosen.

 

_When you return to the Ered Luin, go to the cold forge and find the stone chest. What_ _’_ _s inside I made for you. It is not much, but it comes with all the thanks for a life of loyalty to my family._

 

It was then Dwalin understood that Kíli was saying his goodbyes with this letter. He had angrily crushed the parchment in his fist, not wanting to read on. He did not want to hear those goodbyes… reading the warm-hearted goodbyes would hurt more than even finding Thorin back on that hill outside Erebor. Not Kíli too… he could not bear the thought.

 

It had been more a habit of obedience that he had gone to the cold forge – the very spell-forge that had been Kíli’s home those first few years before the pressure from Dáin proved too great and he had left Cardemir. The sight of the lone spell-forge with the ash-cold fire, always sadden Dwalin. No matter Dáin’s betrayal Kíli should have been the leader of Cardemir, not forced to wander the world alone, to never stay anywhere for too long.

 

The stone chest had been easily found, a simple one cut from the grey mountain stone with no adornments. He had pushed the heavy lid open, to gasp at seeing the content – two axes had been resting inside, both made of black steel, with curved double blades. It had not taken a second glance to tell him that they were masterful works… spell-smith weapons, imbued with powers only few could have wrought into steel. Only when he touched them, when he felt the tingle rising from them he had realized what they were. _Blades to cut steel and stone._ Awed he had stood there, trying to understand how and where Kíli might have learned the legendary secret.  Eventually he had taken the crumbled letter and carefully straightened it out on the lid of the chest to read again.

 

_But for your stalwart loyalty and friendship I would not be here today. You saved me more times than I can name and you brought me through the darkest days of my life. May a bright light shine on your path until we meet again in Mahal_ _’_ _s eternal Halls. Farewell, my friend._

“No, Kíli,” he had said softly. “I saw two Kings fall in my lifetime. I won’t add a third.” He knew that Kíli would never demand others to follow him to certain death; it did not mean that there weren’t any who would proudly follow him anyway. And thus Dwalin had taken swift action, contacting Bofur, Bladvila, Narvi and many more; they in turn had called others. His son, Daroin, had seen to mustering Cardemir. Dwalin had known there were more that would follow the true Prince than it appeared and he had not been disappointed.

 

By the time he had been forced to inform Kíli, to know where to meet him, they had already been deep south, making use of long forgotten Dwarven roads to follow Kíli south and make up for the fierce travelling speed he had shown. Kíli’s first reaction to this had come with a letter he had penned camping near Amon Hen, the first half of the missive had been phrased in deeply touched, angry, and sometimes so exasperated words, that Dwalin only needed to read them to hear the younger warrior’s voice speak them, he could see Kíli’s face in his mind, the blazing black eyes, the woken temper and in the end the resigned smile when he realized he might lose the argument. The second half of the letter had definitely been written a day later, because it was much calmer and much more focused on the changed situation, suggesting what roads to take and possible places to meet up eventually. The raven cawed again, preening, drawing Dwalin’s eyes back to the bird as he tried to discern what message the black winged friend tried to give him But the bird only fluttered up and down, to land beside Dwalin and pick at the map Dwalin had been studying prior to his arrival, and suddenly he understood. The bird was not a messenger, but something had happened, something the black feathered friend could not convey to him. He rose to his feet. “I get it, friend,” he said to the raven. He got to his feet, quickly rolling up the map stashing it back into his pack. “Bladvila, Bofur!” he called out to his seconds. “Rouse the camp, we will march within the hour.” They’d have to be on the move quickly.

 

TRB

 

The horns of Osgiliath were ringing out into the grey spring afternoon, their call warning and call for help all the same, as Enemy troops were attacking the ruined city. From the western banks Faramir could see the situation dire; the orcs were driving forth in a three-pronged attack. He bit his lip, it did not take more than this one glance to tell him that this attack was not led by an Orc – it was too coordinated, too well thought out a strategy, and much too disciplined. He knew the signs; as a young Man, he had learned quickly there was more to the Black Lands than just Orcs. An Orc may hold command over one hundred of his kind and do reasonably well – an exceptionally cunning Orc might hold command over a thousand of his foul brethren and not make a total mess of it, but above that they were useless. Unfortunately, the Black Lands had Men in their thrall: Haradrim, Easterlings, Varigians, and others who filled the gap, and this was clearly their planning.

 

“Look out!” The yell rang out across the marching column only moments after they had heard the horns calling for them. Faramir saw a winged shadow drop from the heavy grey clouds and sweep across the column. Fear washed over him like a wave of black, poisoned water. “Nazgul! Find cover!” he shouted.

 

The Fell creature again swooped over the column, the large naked wings whirling above them and the long neck stretched forward, the beast lending it’s eyes to the rider as it was   diving directly for the Halflings who were at the center of the marching column together with Kíli who had not left their side. The creature came around, the wings pushed several soldiers off their feet claws stretched out to grab them it swooped close. Kíli pushed Sam to the side, the stout Hobbit collided with Frodo tumbling them both out of reach, while the dwarf still stood fearlessly in the path of the creature. . The Fell Beast missed the Halflings barely and grabbed Kíli instead, tossing him through the air.

 

Faramir had already reached for his bow, neither fear nor shock deterring his aim. The arrow flew straight at the beast, hitting the shoulder right underneath the wing. The creature shrieked and rose higher. Around him, his archers shook loose of their shock and they followed suit. Most arrows missed the Fell creature but they created enough of a threat to force it into retreat.

 

Kíli ignored the pain in his side where the Fell Beast’s teeth had gnashed through his chainmail armor and scrambled back to his feet, sprinting uphill to reach the Halflings before the creature could make another pass for them.

 

Boromir too had hastened to Frodo and Sam; they were unharmed, but Frodo’s expression was haunted. “They are coming for me, Boromir,” he said in a hush. “I can’t stay… they will crush Osgiliath if I remain.”

 

Boromir couldn’t agree more, and while the fight for Osgiliath would keep the Enemy’s attention focused on the battle, Frodo would have a chance to slip away unseen, unnoticed. But how to get Frodo across the River now? The city was under attack, the Orcs already had footholds on the western shore – he could not risk taking Frodo into the battle, and neither of the Halflings would find the other places Gondor’s warriors used to cross the Anduin. They needed a guide…

 

Inwardly, Boromir cursed his own weakness; if he were less susceptible to the Ring, he could guide them himself. But that was all but impossible. Whom could he trust to do better? Faramir? He knew his brother would never be tempted in the same way, but Gondor desperately needed the Captain of their Rangers, with the tides of War clashing over them Boromir could not afford to send the Captain of the Rangers on such a mission, he needed Faramir desperately. Kíli? Boromir glanced at the dwarf, standing only a few paces away, sword in hand, and ready to defend the Halflings against a repeated attack. He had proven before that he did not fear the shadow and while Boromir trusted Kíli absolutely, he was aware that Kíli did not know the borders of Mordor any better than Frodo. Veryan? The name was a painful thought; all too well did he recall the dreams. And the Swan Knight was no Ranger – he was not able to move unseen through rough country, nor was he as acquainted with the passes leading up the Mountains of Shadow.

 

Arrows hissed past them, the Rangers were firing barrages to keep the Fell Beast from diving at them again. Boromir saw Anarion kneel on the grass to his left, sending several arrows at the creature trying to swoop down again. The young Ranger’s aim was steady, only his grim, shuttered face betrayed the fear he held at bay. He drew another arrow from his quiver, hands steady and his aim undeterred by the winged horror above. Boromir considered what he knew of Anarion beyond just his family, the Ranger might be young but he had been with them for nearly eight years now, capable, loyal and steadfast, he had fought hard to win his place amongst the Ithilien Rangers, it was the hardest spot to earn, the hardest spot to serve in and the easiest one to die in. He obeyed, fought and was not overly ambitious, his life had always been dedicated to serve, and serve well. That last thought sealed Boromir’s decision. “Anarion!” he called out to him. The attack was breaking off, the creature turning towards the city.

 

The Ranger hurried over to them, bow still ready to fire if the Beast came close again. “Captain?”

 

“Frodo and Sam need to get across the River,” Boromir told him quickly. “The Nazgûl came for them and he must never get them. I would bring them myself, yet…”

 

“I can guide them, Captain,” Anarion volunteered at once. Gondor needed the Captain to lead the army, if they were to stand any chance at all against the storm rising from the East. “Where do they need to go?” Anarion asked, keeping his voice level, though he was more nervous than he would like to admit. That the Captain of Gondor would entrust such a personal task to him was maybe the highest honor Anarion ever hoped for, and he’d rather die than fail

 

“Deep into Enemy territory,” Boromir explained grimly, the Rangers knew the borders and lay of the land beyond the mountains better than anyone else in the world, the war they had waged in the shadows had led them across the Mountains of Shadow all too often. “Anarion, I am entrusting them to you; you will guide them to whatever place they will name. You will not ask why they need to go there, but do you utmost to aid their goal. Our very lives depend on their success. You will protect them and fight for them, like you would fight for me. You will not allow them to come to harm. Swear it!”

 

“On my life, Captain, I swear to protect them.” Anarion replied, head held high, his eyes meeting Boromir’s gaze evenly, proudly.

 

With a heavy heart, Boromir looked at the younger Man’s face, seeing only loyalty and great reverence in his eyes He would hold to that that vow, to his last breath, there was no doubt about it. Boromir knew that he was most likely sending the young Ranger to his death, but there was no other way. His eyes went from the Ranger to the Hobbits. He could see surprise and trust in Frodo’s open features; the Halfling understood. “Frodo, Anarion will get you over the River and further. Go swiftly; the battle will distract the Enemy.” He gently placed his hands on their shoulders. “May the good wishes of all Free People go with you.”

TRB

 

Knowing that the Halflings were out of the battle’s reach, Boromir turned to his duty quickly. From his vantage point on the hills of the western banks, he could see the Orcs had crossed the River at two places, using the ruined bridge and the southern collapsed towers as fords. Their attack was three pronged, one aimed against the Northern Wall, one on the main fortifications and one on the south end, the southern one not yet fully realized as that Orc column had yet to reach the walls. “Close ranks! Faramir, gather your archers and move them to the south tower!” Boromir knew the Nazgûl attack had cost them valuable time; they needed to aid their faltering garrison swiftly. The defenders of Osgiliath put up a valiant fight, the main fortification still stood, but Orcs were swarming it from two sides, and soon three if they could not secure the southern passage speedily.

 

The Men reacted swiftly, gathering up with him at the hill west of the city. “Gwynhelm, take half the Men and move into the city through the west sewer. The rest are with me – we’ll take the north tower.” This would be the hardest spot to retake, because the Orcs were attacking the building already and had control of the lower levels. But with the main wall under full attack and the whole fortification was soon faltering and once they were pushed back to the main tower of Celanost, chances of breaking the Orc ring would be slim. The North Tower was the only viable access point for the coming aid, from which they could access both of the walls and the yard at once, the sewers was the other option, which could get troops into the very heart of Celanost.

 

Boromir and his Men had to fight for every step they took deeper into the city. Reaching the north tower proved harder than expected: the Orcs had moved in flank troops, hiding in the ruins of the former market halls. Their commander understood that the tower was the best chance to move reinforcements in, Boromir thought grimly as he fought his way through another skirmisher group of Black Mordor Orcs, the Market Halls were crawling with them!

 

“Away from the hall! Run!” Kíli’s voice snapped over the noise of the fighting, he was with another group of soldiers still deeper in the halls. Boromir saw the warriors run, the Orcs rushing behind. Kíli was the last of the group, racing in only a short distance ahead of the Orcs, he whirled around between two of the last columns of the hall. Winterflame cutting the stone as easily as it would cut through the armor of the Orcs, two cross cuts per column and Kíli sprinted towards them. Behind him the stone roof of the market halls collapsed, burying half a Fist of Orcs under tons of stone.

 

Wings swooped above them; Boromir ducked in reflex but this was no Nazgûl – no terror rode with these wings. Looking up, he saw a creature, with powerful green scaled wings and a long elegant tail with drooping red fins swinging in the air, sail in and drive its huge claws into the sheer wall of the tower. He had seen such a beast before – it was even larger than the winged terrors the Wraiths rode, with green shimmering scales, a huge horned head and a wing span to double that of a Fell Beast, they were impressive monsters, home in the far of fire mountains of the Eastern Empire and often employed by the Easterlings in their warfare.

 

This one was perfectly perched with only the purchase its claws had found in the wall, the creature fluttered its wings for balance, while the warriors movedfrom its back right into the tower through a broken window. Without archers at hand, Boromir could only watch as the winged beast unloaded the troops and then pushed off the wall again. Heavy and large, it lacked its natural running start, but the handler did a marvelous job of redirecting it back into the air. In the moment the beast took flight again, Boromir could see the handler of the creature, and he was not surprised to see it was no Orc. The armor of black scales and blood-red cloak was that of an Easterling, who brought the creature around with practiced ease. Looking down he spotted Boromir and threw him a challenging salute with his fist in the air. It did not take that greeting for Boromir to recognize the face of this Easterling. Shakurán, he knew he should not be surprised, losing Osgiliath again must have been a serious blow to Shakurán’s impressive record of victories and damages done to Gondor – he was here to make up for a failure, which meant he would fight twice as hard. Boromir raised his sword, answering the challenge.

 

The Tower’s lower level was a chaos of bodies, blood and Orcs, Boromir launched into combat with cold purpose, they could not waste too much time on one single target, they needed to gain ground rapidly. The moment they had regained a semblance of control of the lower level, Boromir sent part of his remaining Men past the tower to reinforce the wall defense, he wished he had more fighters he could send. Gesturing for Veryan and Kíli to follow him with the rest to clear out the tower, he mounted the long stairwell that led up to the higher levels. It was bloody work, cutting through the Orc troops and forcing their way up the stairs. On the tower’s middle levels, the defenders were still battling the Orcs the flying beast had set down. When Boromir reached them, there were only few defenders left – most lay dead and those still standing had led a fierce if desperate fight. . He sprinted forward, attacking the Orcs before they could destroy what was left of the defenders, knowing Kíli and Veryan behind him, the three of them cutting through the remaining Orc troops.

 

The Defenders, seeing them fought with new hope, pushing the Orcs harder. “Kallio – gather what you have left and secure the tower,” Boromir ordered, once the last Orc was down. Kallio was the most experienced of the survivors, and Boromir could not leave anyone with them.

 

Boromir heard the flapping of wings to his right. Coming about, he saw the winged creature land again under the shattered window. It was a brightly blue claw this time, another Drakár, he noticed grimly, the Easterlings had really brought their best this time. He sprinted to the shattered wall of the window and brought down Truefire squarely on the first claw, then the wing and a third hit to the other claw. The winged beast screamed as it lost its tenuous hold on the wall and tumbled down towards the ground, smashing the troops it had carried with its own weight

 

Knowing Kallio was securing the tower best as he could; Boromir cast a quick glance out of the hole in the wall to assess the situation. The north wall was still failing, but Faramir’s archers had secured the south wall again. The River wall, the main fortification looked equally as bad, the Orcs swarmed the wall, cornering the remaining defenders. And there were more of those beasts circling above, deploying troops, one had just landed at the bastion where the North Wall and River wall touched. The fresh troops flanked the defenders, quickly gaining ground.

 

“Kallio, help me with these beams,” Kíli called out to the Swan Knight on the lower level. If they wanted to hold this tower for long they needed to prevent the Orcs from rushing it again. Blocking access by collapsing parts of an old ceiling would do, at least for a few hours. The soldier hurried to help, using his spear as a lever to break lose the beam, the rubble came down, blocking the tower entrance. Kíli responded with a curt nod. “Good, that will allow you to focus on the broken tower side solely, if they bring another of their beasts.” He said before hurrying back up, where Boromir was.

 

Boromir saw several Gondorian soldiers pushed off the wall, either dead or dying, the bodies crushed on the flagstones in the yard behind the wall. His hand closed hard around the hilt of his sword, when he saw how quickly his men were slaughtered. Not looking away, he forced all feelings out of his mind, no pain, no anger, no despair, he needed a clear head. The North Wall had the gauntlet with the wall of the former treasury behind, that could be used to slow down advance on that side, though it would come at a brutal price.. “Veryan, leave the wounded fighters at the tower, and then move your Men to the north yard and prevent a breakthrough there. I’ll take the others and get back the River wall.” It meant sacrificing the Men on the north wall. If they deterred the Orcs long enough, it would give Boromir time to save the main wall and then flank the Orcs. He knew that the Swan Knight had to see the same result, but the Man only nodded curtly.

 

“As my Captain commands,” he said, taking his Men to follow the orders.

 

The main wall had been overrun through the use of ladders and those damned beasts dropping troops right off on the main rampart. Boromir was the first of his Men to force his way up the bloodied stairs, pushing the Orcs back step by hard-earned step.

 

The wall was slippery with blood, corpses piling upon the battlements, fighting on the narrow grounds of the River Wall was bitter, but they were gaining ground. Kíli saw Boromir kick an Orc that had just climbed up the ladders, toppling the ladder and several more of the black bastards, sending them screaming down into the ruins by the river, coming about the next moment to behead another Orc, that had tried to get into this back.

 

Winterflame was heavy in Kíli’s hands, each new strike another orc, he would have dropped from sheer exhaustion, but hope still kept him standing. A part of him was still fazed, unable to believe what he was seeing. Boromir was pushing them back! He had known Boromir had a courage that bordered on crazy sometimes and was a superior fighter, but this… this was beyond that. Through his example, his will, Boromir was turning this battle around. He had been the first up the bloodied stairs of the wall, Truefire reaping the Orcs like a harvester might reap ears. The defenders were taking heart to fight back with all they had, and the Orcs were losing their foothold on the main wall. Kíli had a hard time to keep up, because Boromir went against the Orcs with the anger of a wounded lion, and all those that followed him became a storm that the Orcs had not expected to face.

 

The main wall was marred with black blood, the bodies of friend and foe littering the ancient stones. Boromir did not know how many Orcs he had killed; Truefire in his hands was gory, but luckily had not gone blunt yet, the blade did not even dull, no matter through how many Orc armors it had cut.

 

Peering down towards the River Faramir could see the Orcs retreat from the Southern Crossing, but it was the least bit of relief right now. “Damrod, hold the position here.” He ordered, taking the rest of his archers from the Southern position to the River wall and main yard. The touch of a wing nearly swished him off the wall, Faramir ducked, finding cover behind a broken battlement. Another of the beasts, the blue one again, was swinging in with a fresh load of troops. Faramir yanked an arrow from a dying Orc, bent his bow and fired, the gory shaft hitting the creature’s eye. Like halted by a giant hand the beast stopped in the air, before crashing down on the fortifications of the Sunset Gate.

 

Faramir got up and moved further along the wall, swiftly gathering up more arrows as he went. Another beast came flying across the river, it moved slowly, in a wide swooping bow. The rider aimed his bow and sent a series of arrows at them. Faramir ducked, hearing them clutter against the battlements. As he came up again he saw Aglaron ripped away by another arrow beside him, tumbling from the battlements. Angrily the Ranger Captain raised his bow. These beasts had killed more than enough of his men, he would not let another come close to the walls. He raised his bow to shoot another of those things from the sky.

 

Veryan stumbled under the brutal hits of the Orc axe, he nearly fell, his sword catching the deathly hit before it could land. He pushed against the heavy blade, struggling back to his feet. Hot blood drenched his left arm, where an arrow had pierced his armor. He advanced again into the breach, keeping the Orcs bottled up in the smaller courtyard had turned into a bloody struggle in close quarters. Beside him Mablung was cut down Veryan’s reaction one second too late to save his comrade, another fighter closed the gap in the breach, but the Orcs kept coming, they were trampling on the corpses of their own fallen, as they pushed forward.

 

The River wall was clear of Orcs, the last ladders and ropes were cut off and for the moment the Orcs had retreated from the main eastern wall of Celanost. Boromir’s breath was going heavy, but he had no time to catch his breath or register his own injuries, his eyes going to their Northern flank. Veryan and his troop had the harder stand down in the yard at the old treasury where the north wall had been breached. The Swan Knight delivered a stand worth of legend, holding the Orcs bottled up in the smaller courtyard. But he could not hold out much longer. Boromir saw why the Orcs were leaving the River Wall alone, they were sending their troops towards the North wall, the black mass of their legion rushing towards the breach and they would bring additional pressure on the breach.

 

An ear-splitting sound like angry thunder erupted from the lower parts of the northern wall along with a bright flare shining into the grey afternoon – the wall itself ruptured, coming apart with loud cracks. Huge slabs of stone where whirled up into the air, crashing down on defenders and retreating fighters, like a merciless rain of stone. Boromir saw Veryan hit by a stone spike, falling to not get up again. The Orcs howled triumphantly and stormed through the wide new breach. Boromir knew that Veryan’s Men in the north yard would be overrun momentarily. With the Men he had, he could hardly hope to hold out now that their citadel had been breached.

 

The call of a horn echoed from somewhere outside in the dark. It was a deep, bronze horn, nothing like the cold signaling horns of Mordor. The Orcs shrieked, some turning back as their troops ready to storm the breach where attacked from the northern riverside, they had enemies in their back!

 

Someone was attacking the Orcs outside! Boromir could hardly believe it. Cair Andros could not have sent troops here that fast, and there was no other garrison close by – but someone had flanked the Orcs! He raised his blade. “Gondor!” he shouted as he charged at the Orcs pouring through the breach, the defenders behind him. This city would not fall today.

 

TRB

 

Mounted on his green scale Drakár, Shakurán watched the battle unfold, his keen eyes rarely missing a detail. “Send in more _Drakár_ and pour troops on top of them,” he said, his iron-clad hand pointing out the locations to be used. His words were heard by the veiled sorcerer sitting atop a Fell beast, Shakurán was glad that Khamûl had not stinted on sending some of the half-ghostly sorcerers with the army, they were useless in direct combat but their _unheard voices_ could convey orders directly without the need for signaling. The veiled sorcerer beside him heard and obeyed at once, conveying the orders to the correct sub-commanders. Not that Shakurán had expected anything less from any of his troops, he had held command in the _Tas Nazg Drakhur_ , the Black Vanguard, for more than ten years and had served in the same formation for most of his life. When Shakurán spoke, his orders were followed swiftly.

 

Osgiliath put up a better fight than he had expected, and after seven battles for this city that he had seen he was not prone to underestimate them in any way. The city had been reported severely depleted of troops by their top spy in Minas Tirith, who had provided them with a full listing of troops stationed along the border. It seemed Denethor was not truly willing to commit fully to the defense of Gondor any more… but then, it had not been in charge of said defense for years now. Still, their own spies flying over the city in nightly scouting missions had confirmed that the numbers in Osgiliath where lower than even a year ago when Shakurán had taken and held the ruins for a while. But it seemed they were compensating their lack of numbers with new strategies. Originally, Shakurán had planned to invade the city from below the waterline – he was loath to expose the _Drakár_ so early – but it could not be helped, all the underground tunnels had been blocked are rendered unusable, and the Gondorians had found all them, to the very last secret passage. It had been infuriating, Shakurán and other Easterlings had held back on making use of their knowledge of those passages – some of the knowledge dating back to the very building of Celanost, to use it in one decisive moment, only to find out the enemy had managed to find the tunnels. But no one had ever claimed that the Gondorians were not resourceful.

 

Their main wall was in trouble. How had Gondor’s troops managed to regain footing there? “Fifth and Seventh Fist to advance,” he ordered, sending more Orcs to storm the main walls. Narrowing his keen eyes, he could see one particular figure leading the fight on the walls: one tall warrior cutting through the Orcs like they were blades of grass in a summer meadow. The figure was familiar – very familiar.

 

Shakurán had spotted him before briefly, when he had been deploying the first wave of fresh troops to the North Tower. He had been surprised then, only half believing what he had seen, by now the doubts were gone. “It’s the great Captain himself… Now I understand why they are doing so well.”

 

A near-anticipatory grin rose on Shakurán’s lean features. According to their spy, Osgiliath had been under the command of the little Captain. Not that Shakurán would underestimate the cunning Ranger General, but he did not regard him as highly. Faramir was a good Ranger and courageous Man, but he was in no way his brother. Shakurán had been looking forward to capturing Faramir; he had been promised permission to keep him if he could grab him alive. Breaking the Ranger General would have been a pleasure.

 

Contrary to his brother, Faramir relied more on stealth, on cunning and on swift action to achieve his successes and Shakurán also knew the little Captain to be not as hard and ruthless like his brother. Faramir had a gentle soul, he did not belong in war, while his brother was a warrior born and bred. It seemed ironic, twenty years ago, Shakurán had gone as far as _arguing_ with Mekhalîl, Nazgûl No 4 as the Orcs termed him, to not having Boromir delivered to Minas Morgul. That young warrior should have been brought East, to the City of Tears or maybe to the Firelands Citadel, to be turned to the Shadow. It would not have been easy, Shakurán would not underestimate the stubbornness of Gondor’s true blood, but a year or two in the Firelands, with the right people around and the right influences… it would have been possible.

 

But the Witch King had thought differently, and ultimately Shakurán had been given the order to bring his captive to Minas Morgul and hand him over to the Nazgûl. It had angered him, because it was a _waste_ , but he had obeyed. He had done as he was ordered, no one could ever claim otherwise. And no one had ever asked where he had been on that other day nearly a month later. He shook his head, Khamûl’s promise that he would be permitted to keep Faramir was a reward, some would say a reward well earned… only that Faramir was not worth the turning… at least not for the war. More for the company. Looking up he forced himself out of his musings, the Great Captain was in command of Osgiliath and this meant gaining the city would be all the much harder.

In a way, Shakurán was delighted: he had heard that Snaga, that little good for nothing rat of an orc, had claimed Boromir of Gondor killed by his troops up north. To Shakurán’s eyes, it was a shame that their great opponent should have found an ignoble death on an Orc blade in a meaningless skirmish. No great warrior should perish like that. Shakurán had crossed blades with Boromir of Gondor on numerous occasions. While he had lost Osgiliath to the Man only a year ago, he still could claim to have won half their conflicts. No other foe ever had forced so many draws and retreats on Shakurán’s career. All the more he respected the great Captain. Boromir of Gondor was the ultimate warrior: strong, cunning, a brilliant strategist, and a great leader. He led by example, his Men revered him, and he still was not shy to make the necessary sacrifices, as he had just proved by leaving the north wall to fend for themselves while retaking the heart of the fortress.

 

“First and second fist, regroup and flank them,” he ordered, knowing he still could crush Boromir’s valiant retake of their fortifications. The Man had done admirably, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. Shakurán too had not as many reserves as he’d like, but Khamûl had been unwilling to commit half a legion of the eastern Elite, and Orcs were… they were Orcs, useless pack. At least there was no shortage of them, and what they lacked in skill they’d have to make up in numbers, and more likely in the body count.

 

Shakurán itched to join the fray and confront Boromir himself; he’d enjoy another go at the Gondorian Captain. Being about the same age as the Steward’s son, they had been enemies, rivals for all their lives; their first encounter as youths was a skirmish near the Black Pass.

 

“Shakurán, they still hold the breach – we need support there!” ThShakurán did not need to look; he knew that clear, hard voice. Jadhur was the _Zigrán Drak_ _’_ _kar_ , the leader of the Drakár riders and, unlike Shakurán, he was not an Easterling. His homeland lay beyond the borders of the Easterling Empire, in a fiery mountain chain to the far east; his people, like the Easterlings, were the servants of the very first darkness, surviving and serving faithfully since the dawn of time. Jadhur had brought up his wounded _Drakár_ beside Shakurán’s Drakár “They still hold the breach, Commander,” he reported, a bit more formally.

 

The Easterling could see that Jadhur was injured: an arrow had been broken off in his shoulder and his beast did not look well either. His eyes went out to the field. And truly – Boromir of Gondor and his Men were bottling the Orcs up in the breach. The Man was unbelievable. Would that it had been possible to convert him after his capture as a youth, if only the Witch King had been convinced then... He would have made a formidable champion for the Dark Lord.

 

He looked down. He had not many reserves left and what he had had were mainly Orcs, more Orcs and number of additional Drakár. He shook his head. _Once you are committed, there is little use in holding back the reserves_ , as his mentor in the city of tears had always put it, and he was committed to this fight. “Jadhur, pick up all the Orc archers you can and fly them onto the western gate. We need to deal with the little Captain and his Rangers first. All others fists are to advance. Storm this breach!”

 

The orders were carried out: Jadhur effectively placed the archers in the enemy’s back, forcing the tired Rangers into a two front fight, and the Orcs pushed again into the breach, gaining ground slowly but with disproportionate losses on their side. Shakurán put his hand on the reins of his Drakár, guiding it down towards the fortress. He could leave the little Captain to his men, the great Captain deserved his undivided attention. As the Drakár swooped down, he saw Boromir having saved some of his men – along with that Swan Knight – from the Orcs’ advance.

 

He too must have seen the Drakár coming close, and he reacted fast. He yanked an Orc spear from the ground and threw it, with all his strength. Shakurán heard the pained shriek of his mount and jumped off, freeing the beast to escape. He drew his sword. “I should have guessed it was you, when the first wave was too slow to gain ground,” he greeted him, his first attacks light, testing Boromir’s defenses.

 

Each of his strikes was parried by a heavy axe. “I should say I was surprised to see you,” Boromir advanced, forcing Shakurán to parry heavy hits, the blade of the axe eating deeply into the Easterling’s sword. “they might have executed you after your failure one year ago.”

 

Shakurán dodged the next attack before turning into the offensive again. “One does not die easily in the City of Shadow, Boromir, and I promised I’d come back to put a dent into your ranks.”

 

“And you always keep your word,” Their weapons clashed again and this time the brutal hit of the axe broke Shakurán’s sword, shattering the blade entirely.

 

Deftly the Easterling rolled over the ground, evading a new attack and picked up the sword of a fallen Gondorian. What kind of weapon was this axe? “I told you, Osgiliath will be the new Black Capital before long.”

 

“You have told me that before, remember?” Boromir had allowed Shakurán to pick up the new weapon before attacking again, their fight became quicker, both now truly pushing at the other’s limits. “and it has not become more true by repetition.”

 

“You are losing, Boromir,” Shakurán pushed forward his blade grazing Boromir’s arm, only moments before the axe cut through his spaulders. He stumbled, forcing himself to stand and fight on. “I will not shame you by asking for your surrender… thought I’d be glad to see it.”

 

Before Boromir could answer or attack again they both froze when they heard the horn -– a deep bronze sound ringing out against the darkening skies. Shakurán frowned, turning his head towards the breach to see what was going on.

 

The standing stone, a large monolith upriver of the city, was aglow in white lines, like a suddenly woken work of strange art. Only Shakurán knew this was no art, his mind was racing to find an answer – the stone marked the entrance of an ancient Dwarven trade route hailing back to the Elder Days. Panic rose in the Easterling, if the road was opening, and there was no doubt that it was, something was coming through and he had doubts it would be reinforcements. The road should be blocked or at least impassible since the Balrog took Moria. The horn rang again, and now Shakurán could see a troop moving, flanking the Orc troops.

 

“Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!”

 

The battle cry was echoed by many voices as the Orcs were suddenly attacked from their flank. Shakurán spat a curse. Dwarves! So that had been the purpose of the great Captain’s journey north – not some wild tale of dreams and Elves but finding capable allies. Khamul would not like this at all.

 

Trapped between the Dwarves and the Men, the Orcs were beginning to lose ground in massive chunks, and the Rangers had finished off the archers faster than Shakurán liked. He hated defeat, but he had no reserves to pull this battle around.

 

Boromir had actually not attacked him again, though he had the axe ready to strike at him anew. “I will not shame you by asking for your surrender, Shakurán…” he said, as he advanced anew.

 

“And you will not have to,” Shakurán dodged the attack sprinting across the yard, he could already hear the flutter of the powerful wings above, as Jadhur’s Drakár picked up from the ground. Using one hand to push himself up on the claw, he reached for one of the horns on the neck swinging himself up on the beast’s back.  “Drakár-riders are to take our Elite and retreat,” he ordered coldly. “Leave the Orcs to cover us.” They were losing this time, but they were coming back… and soon.

 

TRB

 

The Orcs were turning tail! Dwalin laughed grimly, burying his axe in the next Orc skull. “Drive them to the River – let them drown!” he shouted at his Dwarves, as he pushed after the retreating Orcs. Dwalin fought with his two new axes in each hand, slicing his way through the Enemy with a brutal efficiency, honed by years of fighting in other people’s wars. At least the Gondorians had an intelligent commander in place, because they pushed through the breach and joined in driving the Orcs off the shore. In the midst of the fighting, Dwalin saw him: Kíli, covering the back of a powerful Gondorian warrior, putting a good dent into the Orc ranks. Sword in his hands, striking mercilessly at the fleeing troops of the Black Lands, a whirl of dark hair and relentless energy – he vividly reminded Dwalin of an old friend who lay in his eternal sleep under the pines of Erebor for many decades now.

 

They met at the waterline. Dwalin had already been looking for what of the Orc boats could be used to cross the River and pursue them further, but a quick hand signal from Kíli stopped him. “Secure the shore!” Dwalin barked at his Dwarven warriors. “Bladvila, take a squad and search for wounded. Bofur: upriver; make sure our provisions don’t get stolen by the Orcs.”

 

When he turned around, he saw Kíli approach him walking with a slight limp, like he was trying to keep strain off his left leg. “Dwalin,” Kíli’s voice was warm, as he greeted him. Their hands touched in a warrior’s clasp: hands around the other’s forearm.But Kíli drew Dwalin into a full hug, their forhead’s touching, not quite the usual dwarven headbutt, but a greeting reflecting more relief and emotions than words would let on.

 

“That was a rescue in the nick of time,” Kíli said softly. “we couldn’t have lasted another hour.”

 

In the soft words Dwalin could hear so many emotions, and an echo of the horror of past battles, that must have clawed itself back to the younger warrior’s mind when he was faced with another battle against endless numbers of Orcs. Dwalin understood all too well, the sheer mass of Orcs would always bring back that day by the gates of Moria to him, and no matter how many horrors a warrior had seen – the first battle was one no warrior ever forgot.

 

“I am all the more glad I arrived in time.” He grumbled, his own voice gruff, hiding his own feelings a little better. They both were relieved to find the other alive, no friends dead, no burials this time. “You did not think I’d let my Prince go to war while I sit home and pretend to be a respectable old Dwarf?” He pulled back, letting go of their embrace as he felt Kíli steady himself, overcoming the moment of weakness.

 

“No, I’d never assume that.” Kíli smiled at him, a true, genuine smile that reached his dark eyes and made Dwalin’s heart nearly stop. He had not seen Kíli smile like that since… since before the Battle of the Five Armies. “It is so good to have you here, Dwalin.”

 

“It is good to have you back too, Kíli,” Dwalin replied, unable to look away from Kíli, fearing that if he did, it might prove an illusion of sorts. Blessed Mahal, had it truly taken another war for Kíli to be returned to them?

 

TRB

 

Boromir watched Kíli greet the other Dwarf. Their close hug bespoke relief and a great deal of familiarity. The other dwarf was older than Kíli, bald and grey bearded, maybe he had been a mentor to him? The warrior’s appearance was vaguely familiar, though. He frowned; he had met this mercenary before, but not really registered him as a Dwarf. So this was Dwalin… it was strange, because he it was exactly the warrior Boromir had seen in his dreams about Moria too. Or had he heard Dwalin’s full name at some point in the past, just never really remembered it?

 

He approached both Dwarves, when he saw them let go of their embrace, their greeting had been unusual but he had noticed before that Kíli would express his thoughts often through a more pronounced body language, maybe it was part of his culture, of the way dwarves interacted?

 

When he noticed Boromir’s approach, Kíli straightened up, giving up on his casual, personal stance, while he still stood right beside his friend, the relaxed stance made way for a warrior, standing straight, tall in his own way, head held high .“Boromir, this is Dwalin son of Fundin: a mighty warrior and very loyal friend. Dwalin…”

 

Dwalin inclined his head, forgoing a formal bow.. “It’ll be an honor to fight for you again, Captain,” he said with an amused grin. “Only you’ll have more of my kind to deal with this time.”

 

Boromir grinned back, vividly recalling his own words that while Dvalén, under which name he had known Dwalin, was a great fighter, he’d not want any more of his caliber on any of the mercenary units. “I had not known you were a Dwarf.”

 

“I never said I was.” Dwalin had never been shy to talk back, even to the Captain of Gondor, and he had not changed in that. His eyes went to the River. “They pulled their forces quickly against your city, Captain.”

 

“And the next time they’ll be more thorough and less surprised to see you here,” Boromir pointed out. “How many fighters are with you?” He had seen a number of Dwarves and his estimate was at several hundred but did he dare hope for that many? He hardly believed that the Exiles – and that’s what they must be – could muster such numbers, or afford to do so. With Eriador being a worse chaos than Boromir had ever dreamt it could be, they had their own people to protect. And while Osgiliath could desperately need a large number of fighters Boromir would always respect the need to defend one’s own people. Still, every warrior more was help, be it ten or one hundred.

 

“Nine hundred total,” Dwalin told him. “Eight hundred of them field fighters; the other hundred can be used on the front but will be more useful in forges and stonework. We’ll need them sorely once the real siege of your city begins.”

 

Boromir’s eyes went from Dwalin to Kíli and back to the old grizzled warrior. He had always felt bitterness that so few appreciated Gondor’s sacrifices in holding the Shadow at bay. After his own journey across the lone lands, he had begun to understand the horrors the north had to deal with alone. But seeing them here, having brought so many of their people to the fight, in spite of what they were faced with at home, warmed his heart. It was truly a noble and brave decision of them to come here and fight. “Gondor never knew it had friends among your people, Prince Kíli,” he said, for the first time using the formal title. “’Tis all the gladder a moment that you are here now.”

 

 

 


	15. And in the darkness a torch we hold

** Chapter 14: And in the darkness a torch we hold **

****

Kíli craned his neck, struggling not to wince at the fresh stab of pain running through his body as he slung the rope across the support beam of the makeshift wooden construction. Repairs were underway on all fortifications. The north wall had taken the worst damage, and the yard behind had taken damage as well, with parts of the treasury wall collapsed and the grounds ripped apart by the flare that had breached the north wall. Kíli glanced through the remaining gap to his left. Bofur was leading the Dwarves working to close the breach in the outer wall, their work on the main breach continuing with all the speed that Dwarves were capable of; while the inner wall where Kíli was standing being the link to the main yard could not just be filled, and it needed a gateway to move troops forth and back. Unfortunately, the gate had been smashed when one of the Drakár fell. So they had to fix the wall and the gateway. That was what the wooden support construction was for – at the moment, it simply formed a beam construction with a rough wood arch on top to hold the stones that were lifted up. Once the full amount of stones was up there, they’d remove the wood and the stones would press down. Due to the arched shape, the stones would not be able to slip down again; instead, their own weight and shape would hold them firmly in place, they held each other. The walls left and right of the arch had to buffer the pressure and stem the weight, which had been doubtful at first with all the damage the old walls had suffered. But Bifur had checked it and announced it sound. He was an expert on static and construction, if one only could communicate with him, which meant either speaking ancient Moria-Khuzdul or using Iglishmêk solely.

 

An Iglishmêk gesture from above told him that they were ready. Kíli grasped one of the ropes with both hands, putting his full strength behind it, as did a dozen other dwarves on both ends. Moving the heavy stone blocks up on the wall again was heavy work, and those who went into the coping of the battlements were no exception.

 

A searing pain rose in his side, making him nearly stumble. He gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the ground, and pulled harder. “Zaî-drak!” The command told him to hold exactly as he was, while the crew up there used their hooks to direct the block to its final place. Kíli was relieved when the command to let go was given and he could release the rope, his arms felt like lead and he could not have hold on much longer. But the stone sat where it belonged. His side was burning, the pain spreading into his arm and leg, a light dizziness made standing hard. His hand found the wall to support himself a little.

 

“Looks like this is going to be patched up by nightfall,” a gruff voice spoke up behind him. Dwalin had come back from scouting across the River. The bald Dwarf cast an appraising glance at the nearly repaired wall. “We’ll desperately need those walls before long.”

 

“That bad?” Kíli asked, gratefully accepting the jug of water the work crew handed around. Usually he freely mixed with them, but seeing Dwalin approach him and the other dwarves moved off, allowing them to speak in private.

 

“Aye, there’s a lot of troops gathering at the crossroads under Minas Morgul,” Dwalin told him. “Had you been with the Captain when I came back, you’d have heard already. You should have been there, Kíli.”

 

Kíli shook his head, running his hand through his hair to push some sweat-damp streaks from his face. When it came to war – not just fighting but all out warfare, Kíli knew he was not that experienced. He had seen one major battle and never fought an entire war that was worth the name, lonely fights against Orcs and Goblins did not count. Dwalin was the dwarf that could contribute far more to Boromir’s strategic planning than he could. “These walls need any hand we can spare to patch them up. And Boromir will have heard all that is needed on military matters from you.”

 

Dwalin snorted. “You _should_ have been there, Kíli. You are our leader, if anyone should be talking to the Captain of our allies, it is you.. And Boromir sees it the same – you know that. He asked about you.” Dwalin pointed his fist towards the wall and the ropes. “This is troop work.”

 

“I’ve heard peasants complain about troop work, I’ve heard troops complain about peasant-work and I have heard nobles whine about lowly work,” Kíli replied, paraphrasing a line he had heard a hundred times from his Uncle, usually when one of them had complained about any kind of work, be it mucking out stables or cleaning up the forge.  “but I have never heard the work complain as long as it was done properly.” It was one of the many lessons Thorin had passed on to him, and for a moment Kíli remembered the powerful blacksmith, standing by the fire of his forge, hammer in hand. “We need these walls, Dwalin. But I see your point: send someone for me the next time and I’ll be there.” He conceded the latter point, knowing Dwalin was right on it.

 

“Tirak, taî ki!” Bifur shouted down at them, and Kíli took the rope again, slinging it around his hands. It was the last block for the gateway they had to lift, and, as the keystone, it was particularly heavy: an arch stone from a ruined crypt somewhere in the lower city. When he put his full weight on the pull, the pain in his side soared again, worse than before. Kíli gasped, the pain strangling his throat, he couldn’t breathe. He forced himself to hang on, but the pain shot up his arm, all but immobilising his shoulder, his left arm and hand shaking with pain, he could not hold the rope properly any longer. Closing the right hand all the harder around the coarse material, as it began to slip through his fingers. He stumbled forward, losing control of the rope and would have fallen were it not for a pair of strong hands grabbing the rope and drawing it back. Dwalin helped him hold the rope until Bifur had maneuvered the block into the arch, concluding the construction.

 

The moment the command to let go was given, Kíli leaned against the wall, the cold stones lending the support he needed to keep standing. His breath was burning in his throat; he suppressed a cough as he tried to catch his breath, angry at himself for being so weak. Losing control of a rope while moving a block was not something that was allowed to happen, no matter how tired one got. “Kíli?” Dwalin’s powerful hands steadied him before he could slip down to sit. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing, a bit exhausted.” Kíli pressed his shoulders harder against the wall, making himself stand. He could see Dwalin’s worried glance and managed a half smile in response; he could not afford to be weak, not with his people here, with so many friends and allies relying on him, and on their ability to restore these walls. This was not a time to be a whelpling.

 

“Injured is more likely – you are all pale,” Dwalin observed. “Don’t you deny it. I have seen your uncle do that a thousand times: pretending to be fine while he was ready to drop from pain and exhaustion.” He looked up the wall. “Bifur!” he barked. “Get someone else to take this spot; I’ll need Kíli for the rest of the day.” Dwalin did not understand a word of Bifur’s answer – he had never bothered to learn ancient dialects – but the swift Iglishmêk gesture told him that Bifur had already sent for someone to replace Kíli, along with an even quicker series of gestures indicating worry.

 

Dwalin led Kíli across the citadel towards the eastern works where most of the Dwarven troops were camped in the old cellars of the old market quarters. The Dwarves did not mind the underground barracks the least and had gladly set up camp there. It hadn’t escaped Dwalin’s notice that Kíli spent the majority of his nights above ground but he did not ask for explanations that the Prince might not be ready to give. He guided him towards the corner of one of the smaller underground rooms where he was camped and pointed him to sit down on the bedroll. “Now, let’s see to your injuries.”

 

“I just will need to change a few bandages,” Kíli’s response was accompanied by a clear defensive gesture, both arms wrapped around his chest, that Dwalin could only sigh. He knew it all too well, not only from Thorin who had been more than just stubborn in such moments, but from Kíli himself. How often had Dwalin seen him like this, coming back from fighting Orcs or Trolls on his own somewhere out in the width of Eriador, tired, injured and barely able to stand, but putting up a strong front, never admitting to weakness? It was something Thorin had instilled into the boys and sometimes Dwalin wished he could kick his old friend for doing so.

 

“Then I’ll help you with the bandages,” he announced, he had practice in out-stubborning this family since Prince Thorin had been old enough to explore the halls of Erebor and he would not let this go. “You might as well listen to an old friend now and then.”

 

The last words had usually been right to spark a debate with Thorin, but with Kíli they had the opposite effect, his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. “Very well then, I had trouble reaching the bite marks on my back with the salve, anyway.” Slowly Kíli removed the chainmail armor he wore, he was moving stiffly and Dwalin noticed at once that he was still trying to ease off on his left arm. When Kíli removed the tunic he winced visibly, because the movement stretched his side too much.

 

Dwalin assessed the bandages covering Kíli’s injuries quickly, he had seen many wounded in his life and had more than a little experience in treating his comrades. He could tell at once that Kíli must already have been injured when he went into the last fight here, for there were cuts and bruises that had to be a week old or older, while a large blackened bandage covered his left side and lower chest, blackened fluid seeping through the drenched layers of cloth at several spots.

 

“You better sit down, _Kíthal_ ,” seeing Kíli in this state brought back an old, affectionate name that he had been called by his family and friends when he had been younger. Dwalin nudged Kíli to sit down on the blankets of his bedroll. “this is going to take a while.”

 

Kíli tilted his head, to look at Dwalin, his dark eyes warm. “I am not that small any more, Dwalin,” he said softly. “and I don’t think I managed to get the black fever again.” He leaned back on his healthy arm, to allow Dwalin access to the injuries without getting jumpy, as he spoke of that winter long ago.

 

“Not that small, but still sometimes the boy I worry about,” Dwalin grumbled while he began to remove the bandages. He knew Kíli well, knew how touchy he could be, it was a remained of the horrible events in Goblin Town. So he hurried, making swift work of the bandages.

 

“Mahal’s hammer, what is that?” Dwalin gasped when he removed a black, stained bandage from Kíli’s side to reveal dark teeth marks that only just had missed the stomach, but marred the side and lower chest as well as on the back of the younger Dwarf. Twelve strong teeth had pierced through the chainmail armor and bitten deep into Kíli’s flesh.

 

“A Fell Beast grabbed me during a skirmish.” Kíli’s hands had found purchase on the rough stone grounds, his fingers digging into the small rifts between the ancient paving tiles. “It’s healing slower than I wish it would.”

 

“And you always healed fast.” Dwalin had seen Kíli recover from many of injuries over the years for he was maybe the only one Kíli had allowed to see his wounds, the moments when his strength gave out. He knew most scars the younger Dwarf bore: the numerous scars the Battle of Five Armies had left; the marks of later injuries; the frightful speckled scar on Kíli’s shoulder that the bone-breaker had given him, and also the shameful lash marks on his back: marks the Orcs had put there along with the horrid brand that marred his left shoulder blade. Of all the shameful scars this was the worst – a dwarven warrior sworn to a House or King may bear a tattoo signifying his loyalty in the same spot, the Orcs had marked Kíli as property and while Dwalin knew that the younger warrior had recovered from that ordeal long ago, he could not prevent himself from feeling a helpless rage that he had been unable to protect his Prince from that. Most of these, excepting the bone-breaker scar, had healed fast and cleanly without festering. But these wounds in his side did not look like they were healing at all, their rims were blackened and seeping dark blood, and the flesh around the teeth marks was swollen sickly. “Why does every warrior of your House have to end up in some vile beast’s mouth at least once?” he asked gruffly.

 

“So you can tell us that we are stupid fools, old friend,” Kíli teased, managing a real smile in spite of the pain.

 

“Brave, stupid fools,” Dwalin corrected him. “And… Kíli… there’s only one way to deal with these wounds… and you’re not going to like it.”

 

He saw Kíli’s eyes widen almost instantly. For a moment, the grim warrior melted away to give room to a much younger expression before Kíli managed to control his fear. “No, Dwalin… it can heal by itself.”

 

The expression in Kíli’s eyes… it belonged to a much younger dwarf, and Dwalin wished with all his heart he had not go there – that there was another way to deal with this injury. Nearly eight decades had not done much to fade that memory, but time wasn’t half the healer she was said to be. Dwalin had been there… in the Goblin Caves, when they had brought that brand, a red-hot glowing iron, searing brightly in the darkness of the cave. If Kíli had faced the flogging bravely, strongly… there had been fear in his eyes when he had seen the brand, when he knew what they would do.

 

His scream… Dwalin could still hear it in his mind that strained scream of agony echoing against the walls of the cave. He’d have gladly traded places with Kíli, if he had had that choice, but all he had been able to do was to hinder Thorin from launching himself at the Goblin King, because that beast, that vile Goblin, did all this only to torment Thorin, enjoying inflicting pain doubly through this torment.

 

Dwalin bit his lip, he had been force to use the blue fire to eventually cleanse Kíli’s shoulder wound, because the Bonebreaker wound would not heal. And the only mercy he had been able to give the youth had been to move far away from Beorn’s House that the other would not be witness to it. He knew that Kíli had overcome his fear of glowing iron mostly since then, he was able to work in a forge, and he had mastered his control of fire to a point where he could touch the flames and let them touch his bare skin without so much as a singe. But the prospect of being burned again, of the uncontrolled flame touching him again… it still held all the old fears, and Dwalin could see that clearly in Kíli’s eyes, even in the way he locked away the fear behind a mask that would fool most people.

 

“Kíli.” Dwalin gently held his shoulders, speaking softly, like to the young warrior that he had brought from the caves so long ago. “It won’t heal… it will kill you if it’s not done. I’ll send someone for Brea; see if she has something to put you out.”

 

He might as well have not suggested that, because the younger Dwarf’s jaw set in a firm expression. “No. I’ll manage,” Kíli replied, his voice strained but firm.

 

Dwalin hung his head, knowing he would lose this argument. Kíli knew that there had been many injured during the last fight, and there would be more soon enough. He’d never take a pain stilling draught that might be needed for someone with worse injuries. “I still need some things from Brea’s supplies.” He said, getting to his feet, he would send someone to fetch the tripod he’d need.

 

TRB

 

“That should do for a while when your neighbours come rattling around again.” Bofur crossed his arms in front of his chest and studied the wall with satisfied eyes.

 

Boromir had to admit it was good work. The breach had been completely filled, sealed, and the wall stabilized to a good extent. “Neighbors?” he asked, turning to Bofur.

 

“Yes, those neighbours: dark skin, stinky breath, bad manners, and awfully fond of you.” Humor sparkled in Bofur’s eyes as he spoke, and Boromir laughed. There was a grim edge to the Dwarf’s humor that he liked; they were a tough, hardy folk, if somewhat rough.

 

“Not that they like you any better,” he pointed out before turning to his reason for coming down here. “Can you tell me where to find Kíli?”

 

“Aye, Dwalin grabbed him a wee while ago,” Bofur said. “I guess the war-master will fill him in on the situation out there.”

 

Another Dwarf came towards them, a bit smaller than Bofur and with dark hair and a deeply black beard. “Bofur, do you still need all the tripods up here? Dwalin says he needs a blue fire down in camp.” Only now the Dwarf stopped to realize that Boromir stood with Bofur, and gave a quick salute, fist over heart. “I apologize for interrupting, Lord Captain.” The Dwarf quickly bowed. “Brea daughter Briga, at your service.”

 

Boromir gasped, casting an incredulous look at Brea. It was not the fact that it was a Dwarf woman that puzzled Boromir – he could not have told that she was female, not with her magnificent black beard and braided hair. Even her voice was so deep she could easily pass for a male. No, it was her name and face that shocked him. He had never met her before, but in that dream in Lorien, he had seen her among other Dwarves fighting in Dwarrowdelf. How could he have known the name and face of a Dwarf he had never met? He blinked a few times, raising his chin, forcefully returning his attention to what she had said. “What is blue fire?” he asked to cover his surprise. “Is something wrong in your camp?”

 

“Nay, Captain, camp is fine,” Brea reported. “Blue fire is what your kind call fire without smoke: a deeply blue flame we use in forges, construction, and sometimes healing. It’s not recommended to cook on it, though. Dwalin will need one of the tripods to light one down there; I guess it’s an injury.”

 

“Take this one, Brea.” Bofur pointed at one of the simple steel tripods sitting close by the wall. It was an old, cracked thing, that had seen too many a transport on a pack-pony, but the black steel frame was still stable and it had held a blue fire earlier, used to weld the broken stones of the walls. “We won’t do any more stone-melding tonight, either way. And tell Bifur to have the work crews eat in the upper yard until I tell them otherwise.”

 

The Dwarf woman took the indicated tripod and headed off. Bofur exhaled slowly. “Has to be an injury,” Bofur said mumbling into his beard. “Dwalin is a warrior, not a smith or stoneworker.”

 

“What use is blue fire with injuries?” Boromir inquired, already turning towards where the Gondorian healers had erected their camp for all the wounded. “Should I send a healer down to your people?”

 

“Blue fire is used to burn, clean and seal poisoned wounds,” Bofur said, casting an uneasy glance at Brea’s vanishing figure. He closed his strong hands together, fingers interlacing. “Nasty process, that. And, no, don’t send anyone. Just do me a favor and be a bit patient. If it’s one of our people, Kíli might be down there to see him through that torture.”

 

“Taking care of our people comes first.” Boromir had done similar things in times past, sometimes a wounded warrior had to be put through an excruciating treatment, cauterizing wound, amputations… the latter maybe the thing he was most squeamish about. He had stayed with Erandir as the brave soldier had succumbed to the bite of a Morgul Blade, it had one of the most horrible deaths he had ever witnessed. He had no doubts Kíli would stay with whomever had to be put through such a procedure, he would leave no one to suffer that alone.  

 

TRB

 

Kíli bit down on his lip hard, trying to bite back a howl of sheer agony. The pain was like red hot flame and pure acid eating into his skin the very same moment. Dwaling had touched the blue fire with one of his knives and set the steel blade aflame, each touch on the wounds was excruciatingly painful as the blue flame and hot steel ate into Kíli’s flesh, burning all poison and stain from the tormented flesh, sealing the wound at the same time. There were twelve bite-marks along his body and it took three to four sears to truly seal one. Between dealing with each, there was a short break when Dwalin cleaned the blade and relit it on the blue fire. Each time it got harder for Kíli to see the blade approach anew, he did not look away, but each time he was closer to simply begging for it to stop, swallowing the words, hanging onto whatever strength he could muster to see this through. When the last wound was finally sealed and the pain abated from the sheer agony to the intense searing on the twelve sealed scars, his breathing was ragged and he struggled to not allow a sob to leave his throat. He managed, barely. “That was the last one, lad.” Dwalin gently spread a cooling salve on the freshly sealed wound before placing a soft compress drenched in the salve on it, and then wrapped the firm bandage around Kíli’s torso, to hold it in place and shield the wound.

 

“Thank you, Dwalin.” Kíli slowly sat up, reaching for the older warrior’s shoulder, grateful he was here. How often had Dwalin been there for him? For his family? How often had they been able to lean on the mighty warrior when their own strength ran out, when the pain became too much to bear? If anyone had seen them in their weakest, most wretched moments, it was Dwalin, who had been there for them, rescued them from the abyss that had threatened to swallow them up, time and again.

 

Movement at the upper stairs snapped both of them out of his thoughts. Faramir had entered the Dwarven camp. The Ranger strode in hastily, looking around with a quick movement of the head that reminded Kíli of a hawk spotting mice. He quickly pulled his tunic on, covering the fresh bandage before it could be seen. In the dark corner where they sat, they had not been in the Ranger’s field of sight right away. “Faramir, did something happen up there?” he asked.

 

“Not yet,” Faramir’s glance strayed to the tripod with a bright blue flame churning inside. He had read about this fire – the ancient writings of Numenór held several fascinating treatises on dwarven spellcraft, but he had thought this to be something of an older, bygone time, a time when legends had still walked the earth. , “but my Rangers have found the Orcs stashing catapults and siege ammunitions for their coming attack on the other side of the River in the ruins.”

 

“We need to get rid of them,” Dwalin grumbled, “or they’ll scorch us before long. Captain, I take it you already have a plan?”

 

Putting a hand against the wall, Kíli pulled himself up it hurt, but Faramir’s words were distraction enough to even make him hide a smile. This was Dwalin: see the target and go for it and woes betide anyone between him and his destination. He was one of the greatest warriors of the Dwarven people, and an even better war-master. His skills had been honed by nearly two centuries of war, and although many of those wars had been the battles of other people, they had shaped Dwalin into the fighter he was today. Hastily Kíli pulled his chainmail on again, the pain echoing from his side was still fierce, but it was not as weakening as the pain of the not healing wound had been. He felt that he could stand react reasonably well for another few hours. He could keep going, keep fighting, it was only a matter of will and focus.

 

“I do,” Faramir said, “but it requires a number of your people, along with mine, to crawl through the old sewers and burn down their catapults.”

 

Dwalin handed Kíli the weapon’s belt with Winterflame’s sheath attached to it. Kíli slipped it over his head, so the blade hung at his back. He saw the short glance from Dwalin and the unobtrusive series of finger gestures asking his opinion, and gave a quick nod. “We best do it tonight, before they can assemble their catapults. Dwalin, get Bladvila, Bifur… We need people who can at least decently sneak.”

 

Faramir frowned, before Kíli had slipped on the tunic, he had caught a glimpse of bandages and while unobtrusive the way he had used his hand against the wall to get up, bespoke a more severe injury than the dwarven warrior might want to admit to. “Are you sure you are well enough to go, Kíli?” he asked, not sure if he was intruding on dangerous territory here.

 

Kíli was grateful for the salve dulling the pain, the cool it spread through the sealed wounds was a true relief. “I am well enough, Faramir,” he said firmly, stepping away from the wall, standing on his own. “I will not slow us down.”

 

TRB

 

The sewer entrance was a low tunnel outside the fortifications; it was supposed to run under the River and to the other side. The way Faramir approached it, navigating between the ruined buildings towards the half-sunken entrance, squatting down quickly to check the entrance and then gesturing them to move up, Kíli was sure the Ranger had crept through that tunnel dozens of times. At Faramir’s shoulder he saw his brother – Boromir was with them as well. Kíli smiled. This was something he liked about the brothers: no matter how often the Enemy seemed to beat them down, they always came back to put a good dent into Mordor’s ranks. Arda was lucky to have such Men defending against the Shadow.

 

The sun was slowly finishing her long journey behind the western hills when they arrived at the tunnel entrance. This way into the old sewer was nothing more than a hole in the ground that had been set with stones long ago. The Ranger Captain was the first to enter the dark hole; the others followed him without delay.

 

Although the entrance was very tight and low, the tunnel became somewhat higher a few steps, even as it remained fairly narrow, and the walls seemed to press down on them. Kíli used his hand on the wall to guide his way through the complete darkness, a whispering sense of the stones seeping into him the moment his fingers touched the hewn stone wall. No matter how small the tunnel was, it was fairly comfortable for him, being a Dwarf. He could stand with only minimal need to duck and was able to move with ease, the presence of the heavy walls closing in on him, more a comfort than a hindrance. But for the tall Captain of Gondor, his brother, and Veryan, the tunnel was much too low. The Men were stooped almost double as they shuffled over the water-worn paving stones. They crept on, the silence of the dark more stuffy than even the air in here. There were nearly no sounds or echoes – the earthen walls swallowed every sound or noise up, even the occasional slurp of heavy boots on the wet stones. Light and air were two things this dank tunnel had not seen in a long time.

 

Boromir followed his brother, who was gliding through the darkness like a shadow, hardly to be seen and never to be heard. Behind him, he knew reliable Dwalin, his firm steps as steady and calm as his own heartbeat, while Kíli was the soft footed shadow at his side.

 

Boromir had not failed to notice that Kíli was injured, he had been moving stiffly when they had met by the tunnel entrance and he still was favoring his right leg, it did not need a great memory to guess what was at the root of the problem – Boromir had been surprised when Kíli had gotten to his feet like that after the Fell Beast had grabbed him. He had considered sending Kíli back to rest, he had never seen any man injured by those beasts that had not come down with bad fevers, many had died of these wounds outright. But Kíli had showed no signs of fever nor immediate weakness and he had decided against it. He trusted Kíli to know how much he could take, and it truly seemed that dwarves had been carved from stone in a lone winter’s night and been given souls by a fierce storm. If he was entirely honest, even if he had not firmly trusted Kíli to know his limits, Dwalin had been the second reason to accept the presence of an injured fighter.

 

He had seen Dwalin fight and lead mercenaries during the Pardos campaign and during the unrest in North Harad, and he knew that dwarf to be a fierce fighter, capable leader and someone who did not take nonsense from anyone, not even a superior. Boromir stifled a smile, Dwalin suffered no fools or foolish decisions, and he was absolutely unafraid to talk back, as Boromir had found out back then. He seriously doubted that Dwalin would let anyone, not even a crowned Dwarf King, get away with any nonsense. Still…

 

Under normal circumstance Boromir would have joined with Faramir, their skills had always been complimentary and they worked well together, this time… this time he decided to work differently. Their scouts had reported two locations they needed to strike at, he would send Faramir and Dwalin for one and tackle the other with Kíli. It was the best way to spread their strength and skills evenly.

 

Boromir did not know how long they had been creeping through the old tunnel until his brother squatted down at a stone brink, deftly jumping down a low ledge. They followed him down and found themselves in a low stone tunnel that was not a water drainage of sorts, but a proper, dry tunnel, with no washed out stones and no old mud caking the ground., The vaulted tunnel had been properly paved and secured in older days, connecting either cellars or maybe even some defense points of old. To their left, they could see a caved in tunnel passage, blocked by huge stone fragments and rocks that had crashed down when the ceiling gave way, maybe under some shift above ground or maybe from the impact of a catapult stone; to the other side, their path led on. A heavy, low barrel vault arched its heavy ceiling close above them as they moved on. Boromir glanced around; they had definitely left the sewer and must be in some older tunnel or cellar of the former city. Nevertheless, he reached over, a quick squeeze to the arm encouraging his comrade. It would not be far.

 

Faramir was the first to enter the tunnel to their right. Their steps echoed softly on the stone floor. Now and then, the tunnel was so narrow that they only fit through sideways, armor scraping against the smooth stones. The walls pressed close, like the jaws of an angry mouth. It was cold and wet down here; the soft dripping of water was the sole sound, except for their own steps that accompanied their journey in the dark. They did not use torches, to avoid being spotted too early by the odd guard the Orcs might have posted down here. Faramir never used torches when sneaking in on the enemy, Rangers fought in the dark, they dared to tread the Shadow’s own paths and often must be able to function without any light to guide their way. It was in their nature.

 

Eventually, they came to a place where parts of a groined vault above had caved in and the narrow walls had caught most of the rubble. Only at the very bottom had a very low passage remained. Faramir's hand gesture pointed them towards it; they'd have to crawl through that hole. The Ranger went first: squatting down, he deftly began to crawl into the passageway under the rocks. Kíli followed next; after that came Boromir, followed by Dwalin, and Veryan. The channel was so low that they had to crawl on all fours, the pressing weight of tons of rubble like a crushing bulk above them. Boromir inhaled slowly, his hands clawing into the sluggish ground they crawled over, with every step he progressed deeper into the cave in, the feeling that the stones above were getting heavier and heavier rose in his chest, and breathing became harder. Boromir’s head jerked back, when he heard a soft crack. Had the stones above them just moved?  Was the brutal weight above them coming down to crush them? “Steady,” he heard Kíli's voice ahead in the dark. “We are nearly through.” Boromir had no idea how Kíli could know, how he could be so sure or so calm under the pressure of the stones but his words proved true: after a few more paces, the shaft ended. Kíli had already climbed out, offering him a hand to get out. “Small wonder no one thinks this passage can still be used,” he said in a hush, while the others followed Boromir out of the passage as well.

 

Faramir gestured them into silence as he took the lead again, guiding them through a watery tunnel towards the exit. When they could see the archway out, the Ranger’s raised hand gestured them to duck and wait. Faramir was kneeling behind the sewer exit, the broken stairs leading up to the simple archway leaving the tunnels, were half blocked with hewn stones from the shattered building above, providing him with cover. His eyes were trained on something beyond Boromir’s line of sight. Unmoving, crouched into the cover the tunnel mouth offered them, they waited in the darkness, their breaths forced into the softest sound possible and still expecting to hear a shriek announcing their discovery any moment. Boromir was tense, the longer he was ducked behind the corner, waiting… waiting for the shout that could come any moment. What was Faramir waiting for? A patrol to pass them? An Orc to move away? What was he seeing, again Boromir strained his neck but except for Faramir’s kneeling figure behind the rock, he could not see a thing. After long minutes of silent waiting, Faramir rose and gestured them to move after him. They came out of the tunnel under the remaining arches of a former palace. Out in the broken street that once had been the main thoroughfare of Osgiliath they saw the retreating figures of an Orc patrol vanishing into one of the side streets. “The catapults are south of the King’s Square,” Faramir whispered. “The ammunitions are stored near the former Seer’s tower.”

 

“Take half the troop south, to King’s Square, Faramir,” Boromir decided quickly. “Dwalin, you go with him. Kíli and the others are with me.”

 

The night was cold and windy. The foul smell of murky water hung heavily in the air as they stole through the ruins of eastern Osgiliath. Boromir did not see the Orcs coming, but he heard their steps, stomping, regular heavy steps on the flagstones, an Orc patrol was marching in their direction, their heavy steps making enough noise to wake any sleeper in a one league radius.  He gestured his troop to retreat into the entrance of a broken house with him, where they could find cover. Hastily his eyes went across the road towards the shattered statue of Elendil, which lay parallel to the road. He could see Kíli ducked behind shoulder of the stone figure, crouching without the slightest movement. Boromir held his breath; if only one of the Orcs turned his head and looked to the side Kíli would be discovered. He could see that Kíli was absolute still; there was no movement in him, not the slightest reaction to the Orcs marching past him so close that he could have touched them, the last of them marching past the statue without noticing the dwarf hiding behind it.

 

Exhaling sharply, Boromir gestured the others to rise and follow him again, to cross the road swiftly. The Orcs kept their pattern of patrols every half hour. It was not hard for Boromir to understand the way they worked – he had seen it often enough. The soft hooting of a Dawn Owl signaled them that the coast was clear. They moved across the street and joined Kíli, who was peering through another old gateway leading towards the Seer’s tower. Boromir ducked when he saw a spark of light at the top of the ancient tower. The others froze with him. The pale blinking repeated a few times, before flickering out of existence. Boromir exhaled sharply. It had probably been the Moon on a broken window.

 

Softly, they crept over the plaza under the tower and found cover behind the broken guardhouse there. On the other side of the stone ruin, they saw the stacks of catapult ammunition: balls of dry straw and wood soaked with pitch. They would be lit before loaded onto the catapults, and carry deadly fire into Celanost. Boromir had seen them used before, the impact alone enough to smash a roof or ceiling, and only their fire was worse, it would set the city aflame, forcing his soldiers to either flee the fire or die trapped between enemies and the flames.

 

Hearing the heavy steps on the flagstones again, the whole troop found cover behind a broken wall. Kíli squatted down beside Boromir and their eyes met, he saw calm, a steady focus in those dark eyes and Boromir knew he had been right not to doubt Kíli’s strength.  Motionless, they let another patrol stomp by them; their Orc leader exchanged a few rough barbs with the guards at the catapults, most of them insults and lurid suggestions. Boromir only understood fragments but the amused, if grim mien of Kíli told him that the dwarf’s Orkish was most likely fluent enough to understand what the Orcs had suggested to each other. When the patrol was off on their round through the city, Boromir nodded to the others. There were a few Orc guards with the storage. Some were swiftly shot by Kíli, while Boromir and his Men made short work of the rest. Boromir gestured Kíli over to him, he knew the dwarf was able to create fire, he had done so before, his way would make lighting the whole storage was easy enough: the pitch soaked straw would burn happily.

 

Shouts and shrieks of alarm on the other end of the city, along with a bright flame bursting up from the King’s Square, told them that Faramir had also reached his target. The catapults of Osgiliath were burning.

 

TRB

 

The next dawn brought rain: heavy grey rain from the southern seas. Spring was slowly settling in, bringing warmth and life back to Ithilien. This day Boromir had no eyes for it; he stood on the main wall of Osgiliath, facing east. The burning of their catapults the previous night had incited the anger of the Enemy captain, there was little doubt about that. If it was Shakurán who still had command of the other side, Boromir was sure the Man was vexed. Along the River bank and on the ruined bridges, the Orc legions were gathering, there were two full legions marching towards the south crossing and another three on the main crossing of the river, preparing to storm the citadel Men still held in the heart of Osgiliath. There was no doubt that this time a full storm was under way.

 

Boromir’s eyes surveyed the walls. The archers had been placed on the top spots: the towers, the Sunrise Gate, and the bastion. He could see his brother there, along with Kíli, was sticking his arrows into the mud on the wall. On the other side of the yard, Veryan held command of the north wall. The Swan Knight must have felt the glance for he raised his blade in salute to his Captain, a grim way of saying that he was ready to fight. To fight and die.

 

Beside Boromir, Dwalin leaned against the battlements. The Dwarves had been spread along all walls to bolster defense. The former mercenary and now war-master was as cold and calm as rock. “They’ll make us wait, Captain,” he observed. “Beat their drums, howl, make us nervous…”

 

“Any words for your men?” Boromir asked him quietly.

 

“I already told them that there’s thirty Orcs for each of them to kill. They know their task,” Dwalin grumbled, leaning on his war hammer.

 

“Only thirty?” Boromir asked dryly. “That won’t be quite enough.”

 

Now the Dwarf grinned at him. “Veterans take fifty,” he said with the icy confidence of a man who had already seen too many battles, and fought many long wars.

 

Out there on the other side of the River, the drums began to beat – Orc drums, hundreds of them. Boromir knew their dread song, and the fear it inspired. Somewhere on the walls rose a voice, beginning to sing. Boromir recognized Veryan’s voice, clear as a clarion, before several others joined in, drowning out the drums.

 

Dwalin peered up at him. “You all right, Captain?” he asked in a lower voice, only audible to Boromir. “You seem… prone to pondering these last days.”

 

For a moment, Boromir considered simply not hearing the question. During the restless night hours linking the past few days, he had been pondering the dream again. But then… he had no answers, and asking for them now was as good a time as any. “Dwalin…” He turned to the Dwarven warrior, who had not given up on his relaxed pose against the wall. “That Dwarf lady who is with you... Did she ever travel to Gondor before?”

 

“Dwarf lady? There ain’t no such thing, Captain,” Dwalin said with a grin. “But if you mean Brea… She might have long ago come through this land. She’s a trader and when she set out with a few ponies and pack loads, she travelled the length and breadth of human lands. Why, though?”

 

“When I crossed Moria with my friends, I had a dream.” Boromir leaned his arms on the battlement, eyes on the other side of the River. “We were fighting there: Kíli, you, me… fighting and driving the Orcs out of Dwarrowdelf. Brea was there too. I have never met her…”

 

“And now you wonder how this is possible.” Dwalin’s usually stern face became suddenly pensive. “Maybe it was given to you to share a dream many of us have,” he said softly. “To see Durin’s blood return to the halls of our ancestors. Mayhap for that one night under the darkness in Moria you dreamt as we might, seeing what we would hope for.” Dwalin’s eyes strayed up towards the Sunrise Gate, where Kíli and Faramir stood with the archers.

 

Boromir’s glance followed up there too, understanding that Dwalin was not looking at a comrade or friend at this moment, but to his King: the rightful heir to Durin’s throne. Ever since he had come to Moria, he had begun to understand some of the Dwarves’s story, their losses and their long war against the Orcs, and found he admired and respected them all the more for their strength. If he truly had been given the gift to share their dream, it was a good dream to be part of – a proud and noble one. He looked back to the Dwarf beside him as the song on the walls died down. “Do you have a Dwarven battle song to greet them?” he asked.

 

Dwalin pushed away from the wall. When his deep voice rang out over the walls, the other Dwarves didn’t hesitate to join the powerful song.

 

_Tairag azir nid guryet…_

_From the fire of a Dragon_

_And from the shadow of the deeps_

_Rose a warrior, a man with an axe_

_On the day we marched_

_Into Azanulbizar_


	16. Twilight whispers

** KíliChapter 15: Twilight whispers **

****

Orthanc was silent at night, the wide halls eerily empty and devoid of any living presence. Saruman was long accustomed to the silence of his tower; even now that the wood creatures and Horse Lords were rallying outside, the silence of his halls was not disturbed. Earlier this very day, his staff had been broken by his one-time friend and now adversary, Gandalf. Saruman had refused to be broken like his black staff, and thus had been swift enough to prevent his ill-used servant Grima from throwing the Palantír from the tower. In fact, Saruman had thrown Grimá down there instead; he had no use for the traitor anymore, nor any liking for the slimy fellow.

 

Now, in the silence, Saruman contemplated his next moves. Gandalf would not leave; he could not afford to leave an enemy behind, especially not one as powerful as Saruman still was. This was a battle of wills that Saruman had to prepare for. Broken his staff might be, but his powers were not yet lost. All of Gandalf’s plans and hopes hinged on Gondor – her holding out against the darkness was a pinnacle to his plans. With the Elves leaving Middle Earth and loath to get involved into another war, Gandalf was running out of useful allies. Seven decades ago Saruman had  wondered if Gandalf was trying to gain an equally powerful and tenacious ally in Durin’s House, but when he had permitted Thorin Oakenshield to die, Saruman had been left to wonder why Gandalf had not invested more time and energy into hammering out a beneficial alliance with the Darf Lord. Instead Gandalf’s hopes lay in the world of Men, and in Isildur’s line. Coolly, Saruman smiled. What a foolish thing: to place one’s hope into the hands of prideful, weak-willed Men. In the hands of men so deeply conflicted, Isildur’s House was weak, and would be ill received in Gondor, as best. Gondorians may forgive many faults but not forsaking them in time of need, least of all the Gondorians of this generation.

 

Saruman rose from his high chair where he had been contemplating the state of the world and approached the intricately carved stone pedestal with the Palantír; the stone glowed like a flickering flame in the nightly chamber. It was beyond this orb to grant him power for the confrontation with Gandalf that was yet to come, nor could the orb give him the answers he sought… but beyond the Eye and all pacts and failings, it would give him revenge.

 

TRB

 

Boromir was beyond exhausted: he hardly registered that his body was pained and that he had not slept in days. It was the ninth day since the Enemy had begun to send His hordes against Osgiliath. The ruined Citadel of the Stars held out, breaking legions of the attackers like a rock would break the waves on the shore, but at a high price. They had paid in blood for each day they held Osgiliath, but every day they had held out so far allowed the preparations of Minas Tirith to continue and the freshly mustered troops to get to the White City. Still, Boromir knew they could not last much longer. The armies marching from the Mountains of Shadow were too numerous to hold off with the troops he had here, they were outnumbered ten to one at the very least by now, and Celanost had suffered more and more damage in the days of fighting That the citadel stood at all was a minor miracle brought about by crafty dwarves who found ways to mend damaged walls, meld stone and worked brutally hard to complete the repairs while under fire.

 

At dawn, they had a breather from the constant attacks; the enemy commander was most likely considering his strategies, because whatever price the defenders had paid, they had wreaked considerable damage – maybe even disproportionate damage – on the enemy troops. “Faramir.” Boromir looked at his brother, who had just walked up the long stairs to the battlements. Faramir stood leaning against the battlement, his face pale, deep shadows under his eyes, the slumped shoulders and far off going gaze told Boromir exactly how exhausted his brother was. “With sunrise you will take all of the troops, excepting half a banner of fighters and lead them back to Minas Tirith.”

 

“And you?” Faramir asked, his jaw setting firmly. He would not leave Boromir to make some noble, stupid and entirely useless last stand here.

 

“I will remain with some of our Men and some of the Dwarves to keep the Enemy busy and off your backs. Half a Banner, not more, we cannot afford to lose too many. We will begin our own retreat by nightfall at the latest. You have until then to gain some ground,” Boromireyes went from Faramir to the battlements, his gaze seeking out fighters, those who were strong enough to serve as the rear guard, the ones he trusted to do this and survive. .

 

“What do our allies think of this plan?” Faramir asked quietly. The Dwarves followed Boromir’s lead without any problems – it was fortunate they took their example from Kíli – but Faramir knew from experience that the Dwarven Prince would voice his opinions on strategies in private when he felt it necessary.

 

“Kíli already told me that the plan is nine kinds of crazy. In fact, he nearly accused me of being a Wood-elf.” Boromir’s face lit in a grim smile. “But Dwalin agrees on the strategy.”

 

“And you like that?” Faramir asked dryly.

 

“I respect two centuries of warfare and experience, little brother. We’ll keep the hardest, toughest fighters here to give the Enemy hell; you get our Men and wounded back to the City. I trust you; I know you will get them there in one piece.” Boromir said with conviction; there was no one better than Faramir to hold a troop together right under the wings of the shadow. Boromir knew beyond the shadow of a doubt if Faramir could not bring these people back to the White City, no one could.

 

TRB

 

It was a grey spring day that the guard of Minas Tirith watched the retreating troops from Osgiliath cross the Pelennor to reach the City. The first columns of marching troops had been spotted by mid-morning and a messenger had been dispatched to inform the Lord Steward. But Denethor had been nowhere to be found until late noon, when he emerged from the Tower of Kings. He had angrily sent the guard away, telling him to report to the Alaris of the Tower Guard to have the Gate well-manned when the retreating troops came in. No one dared to tell the Steward that Thoroniâr, the Alaris of the Tower Guard, had been informed the moment the marching column had first been spotted during the morning. Nevertheless, Beregond hastened back to the main Gate, where he knew he’d find the Alaris of the Tower Guard.

 

Beregond reached the main gates of the city on the first wall, looking around he spotted a tall man in the customary armor of the Tower Guard, standing on the battlements above the gate. He did not wear the ornate cloak that signified his rank, exposing the crossed blades on his back, his hands rested on the battlements and his eyes were focused on the field before the city. Beregond hastily mounted the stairs leading up to the fortification. There was no sun on this day and the cold spring wind pulled on Thoroniâr’s heavy black locks, which were nearly tied back, and formed a strong contrast to the soldier’s fair skin. Only in his mid-forties Thoroniâr had been a war-time choice for the post of the Alaris of the Tower Guard, and he had enough Numenorán blood to keep this post for many decades to come. He stood alone atop the gate, watching as the troops came closer. Dark clouds had settled above the horizon and Beregond felt a sudden chill when his gaze fell out on the Pelennor. Something vile was in the wind, and for a moment he thought he heard fell voices in the air, his eyes went up to the skies, seeking… searching for the shadow that would fall

 

“Beregond!” Thoroniâr had closed the gap between them with two quick strides and grabbed his arm, effectively distracting him from the shrieks in the air.. “Any word from the Steward?”

 

If Thoroniâr heard the voices too, he did not show it, and it gave Beregond the strength to no longer listen to the shrieks in the wind. “Alaris, the Lord Steward commands that you man the Gate to prevent any enemy troops from breaking through with our Men. He had no further orders for you,” Beregond reported, trying to not sound confused. Why the Lord Steward was not here to handle the situation himself was a riddle he could not solve. In the past the Lord Denethor may have withdrawn from matters of defense but that had always been when either Lord Boromir or Lord Faramir had been in the City to take command. That he would now relegate defense entirely to Thoroniâr was either an expression of supreme trust into a soldier who had fought at the borders until two years ago, or… no, Beregond could not contemplate any other reasons.

 

Alaris Thoroniâr shrugged. “Thank you, Beregond. Send for another squad of archers; we’ll need them once we open the Gates.”

 

Quickly, Beregond saw this order taken care of. He understood what Thoroniâr was saying – they might need to keep something that travelled with the winds from attacking the Gate.

 

It was at the fourth afternoon hour that the troops arrived. Many of them marched on foot, as the horses were being used for the wounded, as had most of the wagons.

 

Beregond frowned. The column was too long to be only the Osgiliath garrison. He knew how many Men Lord Faramir had had assembled in Celanost. And even with some reinforcements… the number made no sense, there were at least two thousand soldiers too many in that column, and that was a very careful estimate.

 

“Three thousand too many, several hundred too small to be Men, if this isn’t an Easterling’s mischief I don’t know what is.” Thoroniâr said, his voice stern, while his eyes still surveyed the marching column. “Second company secures the outer ward; archers at the ready!” His clear voice rang out over the wall. “Open the gate!”

 

Thoroniâr too hurried down to the ward, be it to greet their troops or to fight if this proved to be an elaborate trick to breach the gates, and he expected the latter. Beregond followed him down; it was well known in the Tower Guard that Thoroniâr had been Lord Boromir’s choice to replace Targon when the old Man retired from duty. And anyone who had ever served under Boromir knew that he most approved of leaders who’d led at the front, always there where danger was worst, much like himself. So Beregond was not surprised to see Thoroniâr stand in the ward, right in the gauntlet, it was an exposed position, if the enemy used arches the moment the gate swung open, the Alaris would be the first to die, but he would not send another man to take the dangerous spot. Second company had fanned out behind him along the walls of the gauntlet, but they had some cover along the heavy stone battlements.

 

The huge Gate opened; the great valves moving slowly, Thoroniâr silently counted the heartbeats it took for the reinforced gate to swing open. It took six Men on each side to open the Gate and even then the mighty wings did not move swiftly. Thoroniâr stood tall in his place behind the gateway, he had not drawn a weapon nor did he allow himself any outward signs of being nervous.  The gauntlet leading into the ward was narrow, designed to bottle up enemies if the Gate itself was breached. Still, the Alaris was tense; he had seen the much greater numbers out there and expected danger, the Easterlings were not above trickery in warfare, they considered outwitting an opponent something worthwhile. His fears seemed well founded when both wings of the Gate swung open far enough to reveal several soldiers and several smaller figures under the arch of the outer gate- The smaller figures were only four foot high and compact, definitely not Men, but maybe small orcs. “Archers!” Thoroniâr bellowed.

 

“Hold your fire!” The firm and commanding voice of Lord Faramir countermanded the order at nearly the same moment. Thoroniâr recognised the voice and his eyes found the familiar figure of the Ranger General at once amongst those closest to the gate. He was with the first under the gate, he was on foot, leading his horse which carried a wounded man, like most of the company. Beside him stood a smaller figure, leading a pony much the same way..

 

Thoroniâr’s eyebrows drew together, forming a sharp V on his forehead as he, silently weighed the situation. There were definitely foreign troops with Lord Faramir – he did not know if they were small Orcs or Varigians from the east – but they did not belong here. Had Faramir been captured and forced to do this? He had to make sure, there was no other way. He demonstratively drew one of his swords, signaling the archers that the countermanded order was not fully accepted. “Ecthelion and…!” he called out, giving Faramir the chance to give the right watchword. If he had been forced into cooperating, he just needed to add the words _Eryn Amren_ to warn them of the betrayal.

 

Faramir’s pose stiffened, his eyes widening slightly as he saw Thoroniâr with the sword in hand. Thoroniâr’s throat tightened, the thought that he’d have to cut down Lord Faramir if the wrong answer came sat heavy on him. The Alaris of the Tower guard did not even dare think it; Lord Faramir would never betray the White City. But what if…? He assessed the way the soldiers stood beside Faramir, two small ones, one tall, he’d have to be very swift if the wrong response came, very swift if he wanted to try and safe Lord Faramir.

 

“Ecthelion and Turgon,” Faramir’s words rang our clearly into the ward, and Thoroniâr let go of the breath he had been holding. The right password, signaling he was free and free in his decisions. Still… there were strangers with him. Trust in the Ranger General warred against Thorniâr’s duty to keep the City protected. If he wanted to prevent an invasion, he had to bottle the approaching troops up in the gateway before they could break into the ward behind him.

 

Faramir handed the reins of his horse to one of the other soldiers and approached the Alaris of the Tower Guard alone. He kept his hands in clear line of sight, showing he was not preparing to attack. With his keen eyes Faramir had seen how Thoroniâr had assessed the people standing with him, he knew if worst came to worst Thoroniâr would have tried to rescue him, even if it meant his own death. Duty and obligation was the way Thoroniâr lived, which made him so distrustful of the situation now. His duty was to protect this city and strangers at the gates were unsafe by definition. “I do not bring enemies into this City, Thoroniâr,” he said firmly, holding the Man’s gaze until the proud Alaris averted his eyes. “These are allies my brother brought with him from the north and the reinforcements he sent for.” Faramir disliked enforcing his rank so powerfully, staring the other man down, expecting a clear submission, but it was necessary; nothing else would countermand Thoroniâr’s distrust for the moment.

 

Thoroniâr’s eyes were still down on the ground, when he slowly nodded and acknowledged the words. He knew he had pushed his distrust very far and the silent reprimand was well deserved, he knew he could trust Faramir, and he knew that his openly displayed distrust could not have been well received. “As you say, my Lord Faramir.” He looked up, not at the Ranger but to the walls, thrusting his sword back into the sheath, the signal clear to anyone. “Archers, stand down! Second Company, help the wounded, and dispatch runners to the healers!”

 

The Gate swing open fully and the troops began to pour in. Thoroniâr watched as the long column passed the gauntlet, all these soldiers were injured, armors dented, the horses carried those who could not walk or had suffered more severe injuries. But even those who had only scratches and bruises looked like they were ready to drop. And there were dozens of those small fighters, many of them leading ponies that were heavily packed, and he also noticed that most of them wore heavy, well made plate mail armor. They certainly looked warlike, even if their strange beards and wild hair gave them an irregular look, to say the least. “Shall I dispatch riders to aid the rear guard, my Lord?” Thoroniâr inquired. With Lord Faramir leading the main retreating force back to the city, Boromir would be with the rear guards, keeping the enemy off their backs and Thoroniâr itched to get a banner of riders horseback and ride to support him.

 

“The Captain of Gondor explicitly forbade it,” Faramir stood beside Thoroniâr, watching the troops enter the city. “He will bring the last stragglers back himself but does not want any troops of the City at risk for it.” He turned and waved one of the smaller figures over.

 

Surprised, Thoroniâr studied the man who had just joined them. He stood a bit above four feet and wore heavy armor; the weapon he carried was reminiscent of a heavy mining pick – one side a pick, the other a hammer. He wore a leather-cap helmet and had an impressive grey moustache, but the way he handled his heavy weapon bespoke familiarity with it, one that was not just the way a warrior was familiar with his weapon, this was a tool turned weapon, if the Alaris saw that correctly. The other one standing with him was somewhat taller, almost five feet, leaner than the first one and with a straight posture that echoed strength and command. His long mane of hair was dark and heavily streaked with ice-grey locks and he wore no tool, but two swords across his back.

 

“Bofur, Thirán, this is Thoroniâr, the Alaris of the Tower Guard,” Faramir introduced them. “Thoroniâr, Bofur and Thirán are the acting leader of our allies until Prince Kíli and Dwalin return with the rear guard.”

 

“Of course they are where the fun is and where they can make the Orcs bleed” was the humorous response, towards Lord Faramir, before the smaller man bowed slightly. “Bofur son Bran at your service” The musical accent was unfamiliar to Thoroniâr as was the greeting

 

“Thoroniâr, son of Erhawn,” he replied without any bows, his gauze met Thiráns, who did not speak or bow either, but acknowledged him with a cool nod, that was easier understood by Thoroniâr. He was a warrior, that much was clear. Thoroniâr was not sure how to read the first one, Bofur. There was a strange mix of humor and grimness in him and he did not show the proper respect towards Lord Faramir, something that Thoroniâr found annoying enough. But then… he knew that Boromir would take allies where he could get them, and he’d prefer capable fighters over manners any day.

 

“Bofur, your people will be garrisoned in the Undercity for the time being” Faramir said to Bofur, when the silence grew long.

 

“Thoroniâr, have some Men from the third company lead Bofur and his people to the Undercity; they’ll make camp there. Send their wounded to the Houses of Healing with ours, but respect their wishes should they prefer to take care of their own,” Faramir ordered, and the Tower Guard was quick to obey.

 

“The Undercity, my Lord?” Thoroniâr asked once Fourth Company was leading their allies towards the entrances of the Undercity. “I will admit that every other garrison is full with all the troops from the provinces but can troops really be housed in that dank hole? We could move some of the provisions down there and gain room in the old storage holds…”

 

“They are Dwarves, Thoroniâr.” The Ranger arched an eyebrow like he was surprised that Thoroniâr had not worked that out by himself. “They will love the Undercity more than any above ground housing we may find for them.”

 

Dwarves? And a Prince was with them? As far as Thoroniâr knew Dwarves were a wandering people, workers wandering the land in search for employment in forges, quarries and road-works. Hard working, rough people, belonging nowhere and staying nowhere for long, while he knew that the Dwarves of old had had Kings, he doubted they had these days. Much like Gondor their dynasties had burned out centuries ago. So a Prince of the Dwarves? But Lord Faramir had used the title, and he was one of the foremost scholars in this city, if he said this Kíli was a Prince, than he was one. And who knew? Even the travelling people of Northern Harad claimed to have Kings, why not Dwarves as well?

 

“We did expect Osgiliath’s retreat days ago, my Lord,” he returned his mind to the conversation while another unit – this time clearly infantry from Tol Falas was marching past them. “when no word came these last five days we readied reinforcements.”

 

Faramir’s cool blue eyes met Thoroniârs and there was a flicker of warmth in them. “I doubt my father would have allowed it,” he said, with a nearly inaudible sigh. “but I value your willingness to send the troops either way.”

 

“Your father, my Lord, has taken no interest in the matter either way,” Thoroniâr said honestly, he may only have mentioned it once and had taken the silence as permission. Sometimes with Lord Denethor it was easier to ask for forgiveness and not for permission, and while Thoroniâr rarely broke any rules, he would not have let any of the young Lords perish out on the River.

 

“That bad?” Faramir asked softly, his eyes straying up to the towers of the citadel.

 

“My Lord…”

 

“Thoroniâr!” Faramir snapped, his voice growing sharper. “Forget your rank and mine for a moment and tell me when was the last time you got a clear order or answer from my father?”

 

It was the one spot Thoroniâr hated being in – put between the young Lords, whom he both loved and revered and the old Lord, whom he owed a great debt of gratitude and who was the master of this city. Sometimes he wished he had been smart all those many years ago and left the city the only chance he got, instead of getting entangled into the webs of the Steward’s Household. Yet… he would never regret the years he had served the young Lords. “Not since your rode from the city,” he said, looking at Faramir directly. “he has been only to the council hall and the King’s Tower ever since.”

 

TRB

 

The afternoon hours crept by slowly, Thoroniâr stood at the battlements, watching the darkening fields outside the city, sharp eyes searching for the dust-cloud that would first herald the rear guard. Where were they know? Already away from the river? Or trapped between the river and their path to retreat?

 

“He said he’d hold as long as he could and then begin retreat,” Faramir, who was leaning against the battlements, said softly. “He would have waited till nightfall to buy is more time, if he could. But I doubt that a half-banner could hold out that long.”

 

“A half-banner?” Thoroniâr’s eyes widened, he had expected at least double the number for such a mission. “Shouldn’t we…” he wished he could order a banner of riders to go out and assist.

 

“They have some of the best fighters there are with that half banner,” Faramir said, while his eyes never strayed from the eastern fields. “They will make it.”  

 

The hours dredged by slowly, Thoroniâr stood in comradely silence most of the time, both worried for friends, comrades out there under the rapidly rising darkness.

 

The Sun was slowly vanishing behind the shadows of cold Mindolluin, taking the last faint rays of light with it, when Faramir saw them: a small group of fighters making their way across the fields, pursued by the enemy. They were on horseback, the horses racing across the plains, enemy riders in hot pursuit. Faramir saw a group of seven riders break formation and turning against their pursuers, cutting down those who had closed in and then racing after the main group. They had less than a mile to go to reach the safety of the walls when Faramir saw a Shadow dive from the dark clouds, descending directly down at them. He shuddered, knowing what they were facing. “Captain, man the Gate,” Faramir ordered. “Archers, prepare to pick off any pursuers. Thoroniâr I want hot tar and fire ready on the walls immediately, for the archers.” He gestured one of the runners to bring him fresh bundles of arrows for his bow; he had used up all he had during the day-long battle at Osgiliath. Once the runners had returned with tar-pots and fire, Faramir stuck the arrows into the sticky tar that would serve to keep the flame when he fired an ignited arrow.

 

Darkness spread over the skies as the riders came into range of the City’s might walls. Many times they were forced to turn and fight off pursuers, when they came closer, Faramir saw that the pursuers were not Haradrim on Horseback but Orcs mounted on huge hairy beasts – Warg riders. Boromir had guessed that the enemy had gotten such units from the North, but only now they did have confirmation.

 

Only the most daring of the dark armies had the courage to follow them within sight of the City’s walls, fewer of them risked the shooting distance where the archers would cut them down quickly. The rear guard had nearly made it into the shadow of the mighty battlements when a Fell Beast dove down on them again. Huge wings whirling in the dark air as the creature swopped over the column.

 

Faramir’s fist clenched around his bow, knuckled white with tension. He could well imagine that the group down there had long run out of arrows to defend against the creatures. He saw his brother turn his panicked mount and use his axe against the beast’s claws. The creature fluttered up and closer to the wall. Fear, the weight of shadow and doubt, whispers of death, of failure and of deepest, coldest despair flooded Faramir’s mind, all the things that would creep up on him in the lonely hours of the night suddenly flew on the whirling winds of the dark wings as the creature  swooped in a wide circle.  Beside him, Faramir saw soldiers pale and archers freeze. He stared into the encroaching darkness as he lit up his arrow. He would not let his brother fall, to neither darkness nor fell horror of the east. Bending his bow to the fullest, he fired the arrow, not at the creature but at the Rider. The burning arrow hit the Rider unawares and a shrill shriek that froze the very blood of any who heard it echoed over the walls. The winged wraith rose up into the skies and flew off, back to the east. “Open the gate!” Faramir heard Thoroniâr’s voice; he looked down and saw that the rear guard had reached the Gate, killing the remaining Orcs that truly had come within reach of the walls. Most of their pursuers were already retreating.

 

Faramir hurried down the stairs of the wall, relieved to see his brother alive. The half banner that had left behind in Osgiliath had been decimated, but those who were still standing had survived even under the wings of the Shadow. Amidst them Faramir saw a familiar figure – tall, the tawny hair matted with sweat, the heavy axe still in hand, ready to fight again if any more creatures came after them. Relief, warm, intense relief flooded through him, Boromir was alive, he had not fallen to cover their retreat, he had come home again. Only now he realized how much he had feared that his brother might still die… might be lost to them.

 

“Faramir!” Boromir put the axe away and strode through the gauntlet towards him. “Did you make it back alright?”

 

“We had little problems breaking through,” Faramir greeted his brother with a short clap to the shoulders. “we were more worried about you. How bad…?”

 

“Osgiliath burns,” Boromir said grimly, “they won’t be able to use the fortress against us.”

 

“So you have returned, my son.” The familiar voice made both brothers snap around. Denethor, Steward of Gondor, stood at the other side of the ward. Boromir had not seen him coming and was startled by Denethor’s sudden appearance. “Long have I waited for this day.”

 

Stepping forward, Boromir greeted his father, feeling suddenly tense in his presence. Denethor had aged greatly since he had ridden away, he seemed frailer and the way his gaze went here and there was unsettling. “The Enemy is on the march, Father. We had to give up Osgiliath, and it will not be long before they reach these walls.”

 

Denethor’s eyes pierced his son’s gaze. “And you did not bring anything from the north that would avail us? Except those… allies?” He offhandedly gestured to the Dwarves that had come in with the rear guard, casting a derisive glance towards Kíli and Dwalin.

 

“There was nothing of what you hoped for,” Boromir said firmly, trying to not think of his father’s wishes regarding Isildur’s Bane. “And allies are what we need to win this war.” He looked over to the Gate, with a glance asking his brother and Kíli to join them while he waved Thoroniâr with a curt gesture to have the ward cleared This discussion, especially if it involved Isildur’s Bane was not one he wanted overheard.

 

Faramir and Kíli followed Boromir’s wish and stepped towards the stairs leading out of the ward. “Father.” Faramir knew very well what Boromir was doing, by asking Faramir to introduce Kíli, he made sure that the forms would be correct and he also reinforced that they both were committed to this alliance already. Denethor had tried to play them against each other in the past and presenting a united front had been a successful tactic in the past.  “This is Prince Kíli, son of Dis daughter of Thrain, of Durin’s House.

 

Denethor’s steely eyes locked with the dwarf’s gaze, Kíli met his eyes levelly, unflinchingly. Boromir could see the tension build as neither of them gave ground, eventually Denethor sniffed disdainfully.  “Not much of a House that lives as wandering blade-smiths and has to abide by the whim of every Lord of the Land,” he said coldly, with a dismissive gesture. “I remember your face, Dwarf, and that of your ragged family that you call a House – my father deemed it wise to tolerate those who could make decent weapons in this land, and so did I in the past, if you did not overstep your low station. But in these ill-fated days, Gondor has fallen so low she can’t be choosy with her allies and must indeed be grateful for the aid of a _banished Princeling_.” With one angry turn, the Steward walked off, leaving all three of them standing at the stairs leading out of the ward.

 

Boromir’s fists were clenched, he paced a few steps back and forth to prevent himself to go after his father and tell him off forcefully. He knew his father had expected something else, something that could not be and must not be. But could he not appreciate the help they had gotten? The Dwarves were not obliged to aid Gondor, nor had they ever been allies of the White City, that they had come to fight for them was generosity and sheer bravery on their part. Not to mention why Denethor had to have it in him to slander Kíli’s proud family, if all Princes in Exile were like he and his Uncle Gondor would have less worries as well. “Forgive my father, Kíli, he did not mean his words as harshly…”  He tried to salvage the situation; Kíli deserved an apology for those words. To his relief, his saw Kíli shrug.

 

“Do not worry yourself, Boromir, I understand him. He is a proud Man, and having to ally with those who came to this country as wandering workers more often than not cannot be easy for him.” In truth, Kíli cared little what regard the Steward had for them or not; he had long learned that the friendship of a fellow traveler on the road was worth more than the grudging regard of many a lord. And he did not wish for his friend to worry about words that had not reached Kíli either way, he had been called worse in the past.

 

TRB

 

The Undercity proved the near ideal Dwarven barracks. Built in the time of the old kings, it was a sprawling labyrinth of underground halls, floors, stairs and chambers. Having fallen into disuse and disrepair for the last thousand years, the Undercity had seen use as foreigner’s quarter, storage area and in the last decades it had stood empty altogether. Kíli found the main force had already set camp in a number of halls that were close to a crossing with three exits up to the city, they could be on the battlements swiftly from here. Camp was made in typical dwarven fashion, groups spreading out to form their little camps, setting up tripods with fires and hanging small lanterns on the stark pillars. Bofur, who had organized the camp greeted him with a grin. “I hear you already saw the Steward. Charming fellow, that one.”

 

Kíli put a hand on Bofur’s arm. “He is the leader of these people, and we can’t afford squabbles amongst ourselves, so no quips or jeers at him, old friend.”

 

“Aye, but he’s lucky to have such a son, or this City would already pay taxes to Barad-Dûr,” Bofur said shaking his head. “I’ll see to the others; you look like you are ready to drop. Grab a few hours’ sleep. Trouble will find us soon enough.”

 

He was right enough. Kíli felt like he had just fallen asleep, sitting against one of the pillars upholding the ceiling, when he was shaken awake by Dwalin. “Lord Faramir wants you,” the Dwarven warrior grumbled. “Must be important – it’s in the dead of night.”

 

Kíli could see the Ranger a few steps away and got to his feet. “I’ll be back after dawn, Dwalin,” he said, grabbing his weapons and following Faramir up the stairs that led out of the Undercity. “Nightmares again?” he asked softly as they strode up towards the Citadel.

 

“Worse than ever,” Faramir responded softly. “It seems to get worse with exhaustion. Kíli… what happened to him?”

 

“Not here,” the Dwarf whispered, his eyes indicating the nightly streets patrolled by the Tower Guard and Faramir understood that Kíli did not find it advisable to discuss this in earshot of anyone. They walked briskly and reached the Citadel within the quarter of the hour.

 

Faramir led Kíli through several empty hallways and towards the tower where the brothers’ quarters were. Their shared quarters consisted of a rather large room, furnished comfortably, but fairly simple in style. The bedsteads occupied two niches by the windows. Boromir’s exhausted sleep was troubled, the tall Man shaking in the throes of a nightmare, whispering words neither of them could understand. Kíli gently touched his forehead, the gesture was tender, gentle, conveying his worry even stronger than his dark eyes could. He began humming a tune Faramir had heard before: a haunting and beautiful song full of sadness, loss, and a grim determination. When Faramir closed the door, Kíli softly added the words in the Common Tongue:

 

_The pines were roaring on the height,_

_The winds were moaning in the night._

_The fire was red, it flaming spread;_

_The trees like torches blazed with light._

_The bells were ringing in the dale_

_And men looked up with faces pale;_

_The dragon_ _’_ _s ire more fierce than fire_

_Laid low their towers and houses frail._

_  
The mountain smoked beneath the moon;_

_The dwarves they heard the tramp of doom._

_They fled their hall to dying fall_

_Beneath his feet, beneath the moon._

_  
Far over the misty mountains grim_

_To dungeons deep and caverns dim…_

 

Faramir listened to the words, speaking of the fall of their great kingdom two centuries ago, the song was beautiful if haunting. His eyes went to his brother, Boromir’s fists clenched in his sleep, his tossing stilling only little but his breathing became more ragged, the dream not abating.

 

Wordlessly Faramir pointed to a stool standing beside the niche, it would allow Kíli to sit down, this was not the field camp, where they all had been on the floor either way.

 

The Dwarf followed the gesture, without ever stopping to sing, by now a number of the songs were familiar to Faramir, he could tell them apart by their tunes, some even by their foreign sounding words. He knew that next to no strangers ever learned the secret tongue of the dwarves and he felt privileged he would hear so much of it, only he wished it was under other circumstances.

 

The hour wore on and Boromir calmed only slowly, the dreams being not easily chased off this time. Kíli watched Boromir’s reactions to the songs and slowly changed from the ancient battle songs to softer tunes, warmer melodies, that made Faramir wonder if they were dwarven lovesongs, if such a thing existed in the world, or if they were children’s songs. Eventually he picked up on a very familiar tune. _Lets go to the burrows_ was a lullaby that would always remind him of his long departed mother.

 

Only that the tune sounded different, darker and moodier carried by Kíli’s deep voice, and when the dwarf began to sing, adding the words, they could not be more foreign to Faramir.

 

Lets hide in the burrows, lets hide in the bogs,

the Dunlendings are hunting beyond the fogs,

Let me hide you swiftly, the hunters are near,

be still, be silent they must not hear.

 

Your father is sleeping under the Mount,

we burried your mother where she'll not be found

your brother sleeps by Mirrormere's side,

come little one, I need you to hide.

 

Listen, my wee one, how the thunder rolls,

in the dark outside rummage the trolls,

Listen, my wee one, how the heavy steps fall,

it's the Orcs out there, they'll kill us all.

 

Hide in the dark, never whisper a word,

hide in the corner to escape the sword,

Hide under the floor, duck down really low,

be silent, be still, you'll escape the blow.

 

Listen, my wee one, out in the storm,

before the walls lurks the great worm,

Listen, my wee one, the long night is here,

outside the camp the Dunlendings are near.

 

Hide in the dark, never whisper a word,

hide in the corner to escape the sword,

Hide under the floor, duck down really low,

be silent, be still, you'll escape the blow.

 

Listen, my wee one, the years will pass by

we'll meet again, just you and I

Listen, my wee one, to the halls of stone

you and me we soon will come home.

 

Follow the fire, to guide your way,

Follow the hammer, do not go astray,

Go down to the river - I will find you again,

Follow the others on the day I am slain.

 

It was the strangest mesh of two ancient songs that Faramir had ever heard, and the words… they made him shiver. Kíli was focused on Boromir and had possibly not even realized that someone else was listening. Maybe he would not have chosen that song otherwise, for what it said about his people’s wanderings was dark and painful.

 

Thoughtfully Faramir studied the dwarf’s now familiar figure, there was that strange dichotomy between the wanderer and the warrior, the banished man and the Prince… sometimes he thought that through these moments he was allowed to see a side of Kíli that few ever would perceive.

 

Boromir stilled with a sigh, slipping into a deep dreamless slumber, but when Kìli rose to move away, he stirred. With a smile, Kíli sat down again. “I better stay for a while,” he said softly, they already knew already that Boromir would not react to their voices, except in the hour before dawn.

 

“I’d be grateful if you did,” Faramir had sat down by the table again, he had been reading in the light of a single candle when Boromir had become restless. “I appreciate that you are taking this upon yourself.”

 

“That’s what friends do,” Kíli said simply. “His dreams… they are getting stronger.”

 

Faramir could see Kíli’s worried expression; the dark eyes always became worried when he looked to the sleeping warrior. “Kíli, something is haunting my brother. Only once did he speak of it, and in words I dare not believe,” he said softly. “Of all people, you are the only one who may know what befell him on his journey. He spoke of darkness, dishonor…” Faramir did not dare to repeat the words his brother had spoken as they had left Henneth Annun.

 

Kíli looked at the sleeping Man, then back at his brother, compassion clearly written in his dark eyes. “Faramir, your brother did nothing dishonorable on his journey, even as he holds himself responsible for things that he thought and dreamed. He was touched by the darkest and foulest magic I have ever seen: a curse so dark and powerful… nothing compares. But he fought it – no matter how hard it became, he fought; he refused to do the Enemy’s work. And he conquered it: he did not betray his comrades or the quest he had agreed to protect. He did it all alone, holding the darkness at bay, even if the price was to break his own soul. I have never seen a stronger or braver Man, Faramir.” Kíli sighed. “But I fear the price for resisting the curse is extracted from him through the torment you see.”

 

“The quest… the errand of utmost secrecy Frodo spoke of,” Faramir said, the pieces suddenly falling together as he remembered the words from his dream. “The Halfling… and Isildur’s Bane.” He could hardly imagine what his brother had been confronted with, a power so ancient and vile that even the Elves and much wiser beings had not dared to touch it. How did Boromir find the strength to fight like this – to fight the war every waking hour, and then fight a losing battle for his own soul during the dark reaches of the night?

 

“I am surprised you did not sleep too,” Kíli observed, startling Faramir from his dark musings. “you must be exhausted too.”

 

“I spend the afternoon waiting,” Faramir replied, grateful for the distraction. “and I forgot time when I started to read.” His eyes pointed to the leather bound book on the table, it had been a relish to have a few hours of quiet to himself.

 

He saw Kíli smile warmly. “I can imagine, the same happened to me a few times at a friend’s house. He had a knack for gathering interesting and obscure books.” He tilted his head trying to see the letters on the leather back of the book. “I take it is not a treatise on warfare?”

 

“No, I leave those to my brother,” Faramir replied a gentle poke at his brother’s love for anything related to war echoing in his voice. “this… this actually a treatise on the dwarven situation. A little more than century ago a number of guilds complained to my great-grandfather Turgon about the wandering dwarves and their impact on many businesses. Turgon had one of his scholars conduct a study into the whole matter and the result was one of the few newer works on your people.”

 

“Have my people given you so many questions?” Kíli asked, surprised. “Bofur knows Menfolk well, he is on amiable terms with the Dunedain settlements up North, I’d have thought he’d have no problems navigating the inevitable misunderstandings.”

 

“No, I did not mean it that way,” Faramir explained, relaxing slightly into his chair. “I have already noticed how much you, and many of your friends, are adjusted to life among Menfolk, as you call it. You wear your hair and beards inconspicuously, you call yourselves ‘dwarfs’ though you’d normally would say ‘dwarrow’, you use our phrases and idioms, your friend Dwalin curses like an Easterling Captain, though.”

 

“He fought in the War of the Twins,” Kíli replied. “and I don’t know how many other wars off in the East, something called the first through fifth Firelands campaigns, if someone knows your Eastern Neighbours it is Dwalin.”

 

Faramir knew a distraction when he saw one, by admitting that his close friend had fought in the Great Imperial Succession of the Easterling Empire, Kíli could have easily shifted their conversation away from its starting point, because most Gondorians would have angrily jumped at such facts. But Faramir went on. “You usually sit in a way that distracts from your smaller stature and you take off your bracers and gloves to make your hands look smaller – your learned precisely how to blend in. And… in many ways you are not like the books claim dwarves to be. I assumed that the Exile of your people had something to do with it… and thus dug up the one book that had been written on your people after the Exile.”

 

 “And what did you find out?” Kíli leaned back on the chair, drawing up one leg, resting the foot on the side of the stool, so he could lean on the knee.

 

“Not much… the book deals with confusticating superficialities.” Faramir said, gesturing him closer as he re-opened the book.

 

_Dwarves travel in groups, living and working together, often offering all members of their respective group for work services. Contrary to our easily duped neighbors of Rohan, in Gondor, no educated Man of Gondor should fall for the claim of ‘small dwarves’ being in such groups. The so-called ‘small-dwarves’ are not of a different tribe and in no way petty dwarves, they are indeed dwarven children, or Dwarflings as the correct term is, that work alongside their elders and sometimes even pretend to be adults in their own right…_

 

Faramir shook his head, while the text held several warnings against employing such dwarves, along with observations of the capabilities of young dwarves, it did not really dig beyond the surface. The other page held an ink-drawing of a forge with an adult dwarf and two youngsters working.

 

Kíli had stepped beside him, his eyes quickly scanning the page, lips curling at some passages of the text, but when his eyes touched the drawing his mouth opened, before he hastily covered it with his hand. A sudden pain reflecting in his glance.

 

Hastily Faramir put the book aside. “Kíli?” he asked. “Do you… do you know the dwarves he drew?”

 

Kíli let his hand sink, nodding slowly. “Aye… I do… did.” He took the book to look at the drawing again. “It was so long ago… when were we ever so young?”

 

“You… are you saying one of them was you?” Faramir rose, stepping beside him to look at the book too. One of the smaller dwarves was drawn with a wild mane of hair, even as it was tied back because he held the tongs while the older ones worked with their hammers. And the adult dwarf… he too held some semblance to Kíli.

 

“My Uncle Thorin, my big brother Fíli,” Kíli’s eyes warmed when he looked at the drawing. “the midget would be me. I did not have a growth spurt until I was nearly fifty.”

 

It seemed strange, nearly unthinkable, that Thorin Oakenshield, the King and Hero Faramir had heard and read about should have been subject to a book like this, dealing with the problematic of the displaced dwarfs. Or that his nephew would eventually come to Gondor to fight against the Shadow, to protect Faramir’s brother, a strange fate indeed.

 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Kíli closed the book forcefully. “there is no need for pity, we survived quite well.”

 

 _Duty first, grief later, pity never._ Faramir did not know where he had read that quote but it echoed strongly in the dwarf’s words. “I did not mean it that way, Kíli,” Faramir said, quickly covering up for his mistake. “I was wondering… about Arnór, our people there have faced a similar fate, and yet Gondor knows next to nothing of what happened to them.”

 

Kíli sat down again, beside Boromir who slept peacefully. Settling down comfortably, the dwarf gladly changed topics, delving into what he could tell Faramir of the last century among the Dunedain and the lone lands, and soon they were engaged in a lively conversation again.

 

 

TRB

 

High up in the Tower of Kings, Denethor sat with the Palantir between his hands, his brow furrowed as he watched the Seeing Stone unfold the secret he had pondered so long, why his son had failed to retrieve Durin’s Bane, why he had returned empty handed… why he acted like it was no failure at all. He sneered when the Dwarf masked his treachery by noble words, explaining the reasons to Faramir, the Steward did not believe one word of this blather. Boromir had not decided by himself to forgo the prize that was Isildur’s Bane. He had been tricked into letting it slip past him – Denethor was sure of that. Angrily, he watched as the Dwarf lightly touched Boromir’s forehead, pretending to drive away the nightmares. Jealous hate rose inside him. Was Faramir so useless, so blind, to not recognize the significance of this gesture? No, he did not see – he was blinded like a fool.

 

“So this is the truth at last,” he whispered scathingly as he saw what happened in the tower opposite of his own seat. “Not only did you steal my son’s love for me, his loyalty, but you bewitched him. You enchanted him to serve you. But you cannot hide it from me, Dwarf-spawn.”

 

The colors inside the Seeing Stone swirled as they pulled Denethor forward, giving him visions of things he did not wish to see. The White City once again ruled by a King of Isildur’s accursed house; Boromir stepping back from the office of a Steward while Faramir, the weak-willed fool, swore fealty to the new King and became Steward instead. Denethor wanted to pull away in disgust but the Stone would not allow it, forcing him to watch how Boromir left the White City to join another quest leading him back to the mountains of the north. His son… his wonderful son… in a hall deep under the Mountains swearing his loyalty to…

 

“No!” Denethor screamed and forced himself free of the Palantír. Breathing raggedly, he struggled to rein in his temper. “I shall not let this foul bewitchment stand now that I know what you did, Dwarf,” he said to the empty room, a plan forming in his mind.

 

In the silent hours before dawn, Denethor left the Tower of Kings and called the Alaris of the Tower Guard to him. Thoroniâr arrived swiftly, bowing low before his Lord. Denethor studied the Man. He had been Boromir’s choice for replacing Targon, while Denethor had wanted an older candidate. But now that he watched the tall warrior, with the black hair and grey eyes heralding his proud ancestry, he was glad he had given in to Boromir’s wish, for Thoroniâr was devoted and loyal to the Captain of Gondor and would do all that was necessary to free the Man who trusted him so highly. “Walk with me,” Denethor ordered, as he descended the stairs towards the old courtyard before the Palace. “I have a mission to entrust to you, one that Lord Boromir’s life will depend upon. Fail and the consequences for my son will be dire, for he is in grave danger.”

 

He could see the warrior tense, his shoulders betraying that he was expecting to be pointed at his target right away. “You will assemble a force of loyal Men,” Denethor continued. “Only the most loyal and devoted, who can be trusted to never speak of what they will see. With those, you will wait on the stairs that lead out of the eastern Citadel tower. When the Dwarf that calls himself Kíli son of Dis leaves my son’s rooms, you will apprehend him at once.”

 

The Steward stopped, his eyes meeting the soldier’s gaze squarely, forcing the Alaris to look at him in turn, impressing the weight of his words to the warrior. “Neither you nor any of your Men will ever speak of this again, do I make myself clear? I will never hear a whisper of it, and if you hear such whispers, you will strike down the one who uttered them with you own hand. Boromir’s life and honor, depend on it.” He saw the Alaris’s jaw set in a firm line, the slight widening of the eyes as he digested the words. Oh, Denethor knew what interpretation the words would find a soldier’s mind; he had purposefully chosen them that way, because it would guarantee Thoroniâr's silence. He would never allow such dishonor to be muttered about.

 

“Are we to kill the Dwarf, my Lord?” Thoroniâr asked coldly, it might be the best way to approach this, once the offender was out of the picture; Boromir had a chance to recover. It might need some help from Faramir, but Thoroniâr was sure that the Ranger would never abandon his brother, no matter what had transpired.

 

“No.” Denethor shook his head. “This is not your task. I need him alive and you will deliver him thusly. You will bring the Dwarf to the ancient dungeons under this very tower and leave judgment to me.” He waved his hand, dismissing the soldier.

 

The Alaris saluted him fist over his heart. “As you wish, it shall be done, my Lord.” He turned and strode off to take care of the task given to him.

 

Denethor smiled coldly. Boromir’s choice in the Man had been well. Of course it had to be – all of Boromir’s choices had been well before he fell afoul of that Dwarf creature. Denethor returned to the Tower of Kings, his stride was sharp and his mind was already three steps ahead of his aging feet. He would allow no one to steal his beloved son; this Dwarf would learn the hard way to not move in circles where he did not belong. Hastening up the stairs he again entered the Palantîr chamber. Until he heard that the task was done, he would use his newfound power to find out all the secrets of his new adversary.

 

 


	17. It is me whom I cannot forgive

** Chapter 16: It is me whom I cannot forgive **

****

“By all the signs, Captain Shagrat, I'd say there's a large warrior loose – Elf most likely, with an Elf-sword anyway, and an axe as well, maybe; and he's loose on your bounds, too, and you've never spotted him. Very funny indeed.”

 

Anarion lay on the ledge above the arguing Orcs, a small grin curling his lips as he heard the Orcs’ voices getting louder and louder. “They’ll be busy arguing for another few hours at the least,” he whispered to Sam, who was beside him. “You go on: take Frodo and get out of here.” They were past the passes over the mountains, on the eastern side of the Mountains of Shadow.

 

“Beggin’ your pardon but we can’t leave you behind in this… in this place with your injury,” Sam argued, his eyes pointing to the blood-soaked bandage on Anarion’s leg. “You can barely stand, let alone run, if you get my meaning.”

 

“That’s why you have to go on without me,” Anarion said firmly. “I’ll make sure that they have more reason to argue amongst themselves for a while, distract them while you slip away. I wish I could bring you further, wherever you have to go.” He saw Sam open his mouth and forestalled a response at once. “Don’t tell me. A secret I don’t know they can’t get from me.”

 

The stout Hobbit accepted that with a curt nod. He was a pragmatist, Anarion had learned during their dangerous journey across the mountains, contrary to his companion, Frodo, who had crept up to them. During their time sneaking through the Mountains of Shadow on a pass long secret and barely remembered, Anarion had come to learn that Frodo was a calm, introspective person. Noble and idealistic too, which made this journey hard for him, the further they came into the dark lands the paler and weighed down Frodo seemed to become, the black breath affecting him more than his comrade. “Will you be all right, Anarion?” he asked. “You will get back to your people, will you?”

 

Anarion had a hard time to keep his features still. In his heart, he knew that he was too deep inside Enemy territory to hope for escape, especially with his wounded leg. He’d be lucky if he lasted the next one or two days. But he forced himself to smile reassuringly. “Of course. Once I know you have a good head start, I’ll make my way back to Ithilien.” Frodo’s blue eyes seemed to pierce him, and the Halfling shook his head, a gesture that was resigned and sad.

 

Drawing his pack, that sat beside the rocks close, Anarion quickly went through it, handing Sam what he had left of provisions, the pack with the bandages and salves and the vial with saline liquid that would purify water. Rangers never parted from these things, they were vital to survive in the black lands. In the end he came to a small metallic cylinder that had been resting on the side of his pack. It was not much longer than his hand, made from simple, heavy steel. “Come here,” he waved them closer and both Halflings crept up to them.

 

Gently tapping his fingernail under a small lid in the side of the cylinder, Anarion pulled a long band, a metal sheet that held a thin layer of silk out of the cylinder. The silk was painted with a minuscule, detailed map of Mordor, its fortifications, paths and orc dens, while the backside of the metallic sheet had the maps of several major Orc strongholds etched into the steel skin. Anarion carefully traced the old map, it had served him well and it had served another even better. “This map holds all that is known of Mordor amongst those not servants of the Enemy,” he said to Frodo, who’s eyes were darting over the map. “This handwriting –“he indicated one edgier, “are older entries, twenty years and older, while these,” he pointed to his own more fluid hand. “were made by me in the last ten years.”

 

Frodo carefully held the map, his blue eyes wide. “This is a treasure beyond counting, Anarion… I doubt many people guess how much you know of the Enemy lands.” He whispered.

 

“We are Rangers, we walk in the shadows none else dares tread,” Anarion said with a small smile. “I hope this map will help you to navigate the lands ahead.” He gently placed his hand over Frodo’s showing him how to fold the map back into the steel cylinder. “The man who originally made this was a Ranger too, he dared enter many a dark stronghold, and they say he even scouted the outskirts of Barad-Dûr itself. It guided him – even when he dared to enter the accursed city of Minas Morgul… may his strength and luck go with you, may his spirit watch over you always.”

 

Anarion watched the two Halflings sneak down the slopes of the dark mountains. He hated himself for getting injured, for not evading that arrow that had pierced his leg, for not being able to help them further. The Captain had trusted him to do this but there was no other option now. The young Ranger took his bow and arrows, forcing himself up to his feet. He’d give them a great warrior to hunt for.

 

TRB

 

Kíli rapidly descended the stairs of the tower and went out into the yard of the citadel; dawn would be upon them soon, another long day awaited. Tired and lost in his thoughts, he did not pay heed to the number of Tower Guards in the yard. Only when they approached him he looked up. “Alaris Thoroniâr,” he greeted their leader. “is something the matter?”

 

“You are to come with us at once,” the Alaris informed him.

 

Had there not been a number of them circling him, Kíli would simply have followed Thoroniâr to whatever meeting he was summoned to, but with a dozen guards encircling him he knew this was no invitation. His hand went to his back to draw his blade.

 

“I’d not advise that,” Thoroniâr’s voice was cool, steady, a guardsman arresting a criminal and certainly not getting worked up about it. “drawing weapons against the guard is not offense taken lightly in these lands.”

 

Kíli closed his fist, knowing the words true. A stranger drawing a weapon against the guard could be executed in Gondor, killing a guard was an offense that would get one hanged without any judge wasting time on a second hearing. Gondor’s laws were strict and he was well familiar with them. “I am an ally of your people, Thoroniâr, and as such your laws protect me too in times of war.”

 

“That would be true, had Lord Denethor truly and formally acknowledged your so called alliance,” Thoroniâr arched an eyebrow. “I would go as far as recognizing you as a mercenary fighting for us, which still means you will follow me now.”

 

One of the guards had stepped up on Kíli from behind, trying to take the dragon sword from him. The dwarf spun around, his first making hard impact with the guardsman’s side. Several more guards joined the fight, some of them underestimating Kíli’s strength and in consequence getting thrown across the yard.

 

Thoroniâr moved forward, he only used a dagger as he had to capture the dwarf alive. With his right hand he grabbed the dwarf’s long hair, yanking it around to bring the blade right to Kíli’s throat. The dwarf pushed, trying to break free, the blade grazing his jawline. Thrononiâr applied more pressure, a second guardsman grabbing them dwarf’s shoulders from behind, forcing him to his knees.

 

Kíli knew he had no chance to break free, whatever this was about, he would have to see this through from wherever they would bring him.

 

Thoroniâr freed his hand from the tangled hair, noticing that one of those strange braids had fallen apart. “Disarm him,” he ordered his men.

 

Shortly after the guards led Kíli away from the yard, leaving behind one item on the white flagstones – a silver bead, marred by blood and entangled with hair.

 

TRB

 

Denethor descended the stairs of the Tower of Kings by midmorning, having received Thoroniâr’s report that the Dwarf was secured in the dungeon “Have Hirgon sent to Dol Amroth with a message…” Seeing the Tower Captain’s frown, he stopped.

 

“But, you sent Hirgon to Rohan with the Red Arrow a week ago,” Thoroniâr reminded him.

                                                                                                                               

Denethor frowned. Had he indeed done so? He recalled that Boromir had been very insistent on this and he had given in, eventually. He’d deal with Rohan when they came here, if they came at all.  The Rohirrim and their King could not be trusted. “Very well then, Captain. Send a message to Imrahil of Dol Amroth that I may have need of him soon. Where did you store the dwarf’s weapons?”

 

“For now they are stored at the guard armory, my Lord,” Thoroniâr’s eyes pointed across the yards to the other side of the citadel.

 

“Good. Keep them apart from anyone. They are bespelled, twisted and touched by some of the vilest arts known to their degraded race.” Denethor eyed the Captain coolly. “You will make sure no one disturbs me. If someone of import needs to speak to me, you will carry the message yourself. None other will come down to the dungeons. Is that understood?”

 

He needn’t have been that forceful, for there was neither doubt nor wavering in the warrior’s eyes, Denethor noticed. Apprehending the dwarf creature had not shaken the man, nor caused him to wonder what his orders were about. The Alaris bowed deeply. “As you wish, it shall be done.”

 

Denethor waited for him to vanish from the courtyard before he reentered the tower to walk down to the dungeons beneath it. In ancient times, these dungeons must have served a different purpose, or maybe they had been reserved for traitors. Denethor did not know for sure; he had only found out about their existence by accident. At that time, he had doubted he’d ever have need of them. But young as he had been, he would not have believed many things: he would not have believed that any of Isildur’s diluted blood would threaten to return, nor that his eldest son would become enthralled by vile magic.

 

The dungeon was not very large; it had no need to be. The guards had secured the Dwarf with the chains hanging from the ceiling, they had most likely been forced to use to employ the entire length these chains had, because prisoners of such small size were rare, and few small orcs would have had the honor of ever being brought here. To the side of the room, Denethor saw the chainmail armor and tunic of the dwarf, discarded along with whatever other clothes he had chosen to wear, all that he still had now were the breeches. His naked torso was marred with new injuries as well as old. He noticed several blueish glittering scars on the left side of the chest. A small cut ran along his jawline and the bruises on his collarbones were fresh as well, along with the disheveled mane there was little doubt he had struggled against being brought here. “Resisting the Tower Guard carrying out a lawful order of their Lord can get you executed in these lands, especially as a stranger,” he observed. “Or did you forget?”

 

Kíli shifted his weight; it was easy to see that he was trying to release the strain on his arms. “How could I? Your people are very fond of making that clear,” he responded his voice having a cold, tense sound to Denethor’s ears.

 

“A greater crime it is to use bewitchment on the person of the Steward or his family… The punishment for such a crime is not spelled out in the law but it is supposed to go beyond the mere penalties for murder or treason,” Denethor pointed out, using the torch he carried to light the tripods in the room, the flames rising slowly, illuminating his captive.

 

The flames dancing along the torch moved like touched by a soft wind, bending towards the dwarf, as if the fire itself wanted to touch him. “Every man can die only once,” Kíli told him, “whether he is guilty or not.” His eyes strayed to the flickering flame, and Denethor perceived a strange comfort, maybe even love in them. He stepped back, placing the torch on the wall.

 

“It is the manner of dying that makes the difference.” Denethor walked around the captive, the dwarf’s body was marred beyond belief. Ugly and flawed, like a piece of broken garbage forgotten to be discarded. Denethor noticed the feet firmly planted on the ground, reaching for the safety of the stone, the shoulders tense, rigid, there were a thousand ways a man could betray fear, and this one did by trying to not betray it.  “Tell me, how did you ensnare my son into your spells? How did you make him forget his loyalty to me?”

 

The black eyes flickered and there was an almost imperceptible hesitation in him before the dwarf spoke again. “Your son is the most loyal Man there is – he’d never turn on Gondor.”

 

“Is that so?” Denethor asked in a whisper, how could this stealing creature claim to know his son, or his heart?. “Why then do you claim his loyalty?” He stopped to face the captive, grey eyes meeting black and Denethor saw darkness, these eyes held a darkness of deeps, of shadows and pain – how could this creature carry so much Shadow and not be a servant of the Enemy? “You will tell me how to break the spell on him, son of Dari, and then you will die.”

 

“If Mahal has measured the time of any Dwarf’s passing, he’ll guide him to the right place.” Kíli’s had studied the old man’s face and what he had seen there frightened him. These contorted features and hastily flickering eyes did not belong to any sane man, and worse they reminded him vividly of Boromir’s expression during those terrible moments in Amon Hen. He did not know what Shadow had befallen Denethor, but he was determined to not give ground.

 

Denethor could see the steely façade snap into place. It was something that inevitably happened with all captive warriors: they’d go into defense, hide their feelings and try to use an armor of courage to get through what lay ahead of them. The trick was to crack the armor, to find the weak spots that they could not protect, and the Seeing Stone had given Denethor many events, many painful moments of the captive’s life that would work to break through the armor he invisibly created around himself. He would learn that his soul already lay bare. “You were not quite as… brash… when the Goblin King had you,” he observed softly, “and this wasn’t even the first time, was it? Only the first others saw. What a weak impression you must have made against the… what did he name it? The bone-breaker?”

 

The dwarf went still, not just that he did not reply, his body too ceased moving, or even showing any signs of heightened tension, it sagged, stopped being upheld at all, even the gaze of the dark eyes became empty, as if the very words had forced the dwarf into non-reaction. Fear, the fears of the past were encroaching on him, Denethor thought, and he would learn that these fears were not even through the door yet.

 

Denethor slowly removed the glove he was wearing; what he was going to do now he had seen in the Palantír, and while he knew that the Seeing Stones could not lie, he was not sure if he had understood the knowledge passed to him rightly. The voice that had whispered these instructions to him had come from afar, Denethor did not know from whence it came or into what lesson of old he had tapped, but he had learned… oh he had learned.  “Pain is a patient teacher, Kíli – the only teacher that has all the time in the world.” With his bare hand, he touched the Dwarf’s broad chest, and the dwarf’s body convulsed in searing pain, spreading through his body from the center of Denethor’s touch, racing through every bone and muscle like liquid fire, even as Kíli bit back a scream. Denethor smiled, feeling the power surge through him, he could see how the pain spread through the dwarf, like fiery lines intertwining on his body, he knew what he was inflicting and it was an intoxicating feeling to be aware of every sweet ounce of torment he was giving the dwarf and being able to watch so detachedly all the same. He would free his son. “The bone-breaker,” he said softly removing his hand from the dwarf’s chest. “I never seem to quite remember the entire story…”

 

Denethor saw the dwarf’s hands clench around the chains, the creature was struggling now that the pain was gone, like all lashed things it knew that the next blow would fall.

 

He approached the Dwarf again, not touching him yet. "I was told that the Orcs used knives to carve into your skin, here." The dwarf’s shoulders were covered by the lustrous mane that would have served any maiden proud. Denethor ran his fingers through the long tresses, brushing them aside in a nearly gentle touch. He could feel a rigid tension return to the dwarf along with a shudder running right through his skin. Amused he repeated the gesture, actually putting the long hair forward that it fell in front of his shoulder to reveal the right shoulder blade and the crude set of characters scarred on it. A rude and crude statement of ownership, inscribed into the very skin.

 

Denethor’s finger traced the writings, his touch sending one single fiery line of pain through the crude letters, the dwarf would remember pain old… and learn of pain new.

 

Kíli stifled any noise in his throat when the fresh pain ran through his body, he wanted nothing more than to break these bonds, to escape those touches but all he could do was not allow any of his distress to manifest in words or voice. He would not give that old man that triumph.

 

"Of course, they lashed you – they always do, don't they? I never can quite understand why." Denethor circled the captive again, his hand tracing the lash marks all across the back. “Such marks of shame… like any commoner whipped in the market for stealing a goat would have. So low…”

 

He could feel the dwarf tense anew; he was so skittish to touch like a fearful maiden, an amusing trait in one who was supposed to be hardened warrior.

 

 "And then they brought the bone-breaker... not a hammer, but a saw. A vile, rusty saw to sever your bones in the shoulder." He touched the place where the scar ran across Kíli's strong shoulder. The dwarf almost jumped at the touch, trying to push off the hand but the chains holding him in place. "And as you screamed your agony into the dark, your uncle watched... Your King left you to suffer alone."

 

TRB

 

“Three marching columns, one Orcs, one Haradrim and Orcs and the third Easterling Legions all are crossing the Pelennor at different angles.” Faramir’s hand pointed out the directions on the map. He stood with Boromir and Veryan, in the Captain’s Guard room at the citadel, a map of the city and the Pelennor spread out on the heavy stone table between them. Their father had not deigned to join them, and Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, was delayed, though he had sent word he would eventually attend. “At that pace, we will be under siege in less than two days. The populace of the surrounding lands and the Pelennor villages has fled to the city already.”

 

“Have all people moved out of the lowest ring,” Boromir said. “We will need it as a battle ground when they get over the wall. We will make the best use of the time we still have. I will talk to our Dwarves; they can help us block and bar the gates.”

 

Imrahil of Dol Amroth pushed open the door of the guard room, striding in hastily. “I apologize for my delay,” he said courtly, “but Hirluin of Morthrond and Lisuar of Lossarnach were both rather insistent I hear their complaints. They feel that the muster of their lands was conducted… rather harshly.” His glance went from Boromir and his brother, to Veryan who stood with them at the map table..

 

Veryan did not speak; only an arched eyebrow asked his father if this really was the time to discuss disgruntled nobles and their complaints.

 

“It needed to be done and they were drawing things out needlessly, Imrahil,” Boromir told the Prince. “I expected them to see by now what we are facing.”

 

“I reminded them of that too,” Imrahil replied calmly. “Yet… there is another matter. It is very commendable that you found Gondor new allies on your journey north, Boromir. I would call it praiseworthy, especially as they are willing to commit troops to our cause…”

 

“But?” Boromir asked, frowning.

 

“Only the Steward may make such decisions without hearing the Lords of the Provinces,” Imrahil raised his hand, the wide gesture indicating the citadel, the council hall, maybe the entirety of Gondor that he spoke of, “and they were not heard, nor has your father yet confirmed his acceptance of this alliance.”

 

“We are at war, Imrahil.” Boromir shook his head, pacing forth and back between the table and the wall. “If the Lords of the Land wish to negotiate for a few years, they are welcome to do so… the next time war marches upon us. I am not going to turn away valuable allies.”

 

“I think the Prince is only relaying the complaints of others,” Faramir voice was sharp and his words directed at Imrahil, whom he cast a piercing glance. “I would guess all the White Mountains provinces will have been speaking to him.”

 

Imrahil’s eyes widened, of course he was aware that Faramir was the more political savvy of the brothers, but he had not expected him to see the matter so clearly. “What makes you assume that, Faramir?” he inquired. “I did not mention names or provinces.”

 

“Simply because they are the only ones likely to have any trade relations to the other Dwarf kingdom up at Mount Erebor,” Faramir told him.

 

“And thusly will be loath to see the Man from whom their trade partner stole the throne here.” Boromir caught on what Faramir was saying. “When will they see that we will have Orc legions before these very walls in less than two days and an army of Easterlings on top of that? Mordor is ready to overrun us all, and they worry about their petty trade rights.”

 

“Alienating them is not going to help, Boromir,” Imrahil argued his point, he wished Boromir would see the matter more balanced and had consulted with the council prior to bringing a banished Prince and his rogue followers to the city. “But I also doubt that their view on matters among the Dwarves is entirely correct either. Maybe the leader of your allies would be willing to confirm that?”

 

“I expect Prince Kíli and Dwalin to arrive here shortly,” Boromir replied, “and we may spare a few moments for your concerns. Though to my mind, it is of no consequences if some provinces find their trading partners vexed as I do not see the troops of said trading partners on our walls this very moment.”

 

“This is more long term than this war, Boromir.” Imrahil snapped. “Dáin is a very powerful and influential King in the North, and this dwarven rogue you brought here with his war-band, is a disgraced and banished son of…”

 

He did not get a chance to finish the sentence, Boromir had closed the gap between them in two long strides, his hard hand grasping Imrahil’s wrist. “You still are parroting the words of nobles fearing for their purse, _Uncle,”_ The Captain of Gondor said in a low, threatening voice. “Kíli, son of Dari is the last son of Durin’s true line – the true heir to the throne Dáin stole, and a better friend and ally than that a thieving dwarf sitting up north and not bothering to even think of our situation. I would trade these ‘thieves and rogues’ as you call them for any of your petty nobles and deem it a trade well done.”

 

Before their altercation could reach further levels, heavy steps approach the door. When it swung open, only Dwalin walked in, bowing shortly. Thirán was with him, but like most times keeping to the background. “Is Prince Kíli with you?” Boromir asked him at once as he let go of Imrahil and stepped back to the map table.

 

The Dwarves frowned as they exchanged swift glances. “No. I have not seen him since last night when your brother came for him. I believed he was still with you.”

 

“He left the Citadel before first light.” Faramir was instantly alert, his hands leaning slightly on the table, a typical gesture when the Ranger wanted to think. “If he never came back to the Undercity….” The implications were dangerous… if some of the nobles had acted already… no matter who had done this, it would endanger the alliance Boromir had built with the dwarves, for Faramir had no doubt that Dwalin and Bofur would not stay a moment longer if their Prince came to harm by Gondorian hands. Or was this a work of the enemy? Faramir doubted it slightly, because if the enemy’s arm reached that far, they would have already seen assassins for Boromir and Denethor.

 

“Then someone saw to that.” Frustrated, Boromir made a first, not quite bringing it down on the table, stopping himself from hitting the stone. This had to be the enemy’s doing… or had someone else been aware of Isildur’s Bane? Kíli was one of the very few beings in Middle Earth who knew with utter surety where the Ring was headed - of the three people in this city, Faramir, Kíli and Boromir himself, Kíli was the only who could be caught or vanished without sending all of Gondor into instant alert. Maybe the enemy had made use of those who would hate Kíli either way. “And one of our lovely noble snakes might be behind it.” Boromir wished he could toss all of them into a dungeon and give the key to the sea. It was so like them to do the enemy’s work out of their own petty concerns.

 

“We don’t know that yet,” Imrahil reminded him. “He might have simply missed his meeting with war-master Dwalin.”

 

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Faramir said. “Something is wrong here.” It was the worst possible moment for such a thing to happen: for strife to break out in their own ranks – the Enemy’s work, beyond doubt. He could see the glances exchanged between Dwalin and Thirán, and that Thirán had placed a hand on Dwalin’s arm, like he was holding him back from something. How much influence did the dark, silent dwarf have over the war-master? How much of that could he extend towards Bofur? Would he be able to wield that influence when push came to shove… provided he would not be with them anyway?

 

“Veryan, see to the preparations.” Boromir decided, they needed to act quickly and he could not entrust this to anyone else. If Kíli had been taken because of what he knew of the Ring--- Boromir did not like to think of it. “If someone complains too loudly, deal with them. I trust you to whip them in line and get the city ready for an all-out attack. Send word to me if necessary, I have a few ideas where to begin asking questions in the meantime.”

 

Boromir and Faramir strode out of the room and into the yard. “You think the nobles are behind that?” Faramir asked. “It would make sense – and it could destroy our alliance with Kíli’s people, and they may hope for further trade with Dáin, if they kill his problem.”

 

“That is their motivation, no doubt.” Boromir looked around, checking there was no one close by. “Fari – Kíli knows all about Frodo, about our hopes, about the plan… if someone captures him and interrogates him… Kíli is strong, but every man has a breaking point.”

 

TRB

 

Inflicting pain through his touch was straining, Denethor had not expected it to take so much out of him, and the Dwarf was strong; he had neither screamed nor pleaded, no matter how much pain he had been subjected to. Sweat glistened on his bare skin, but he still stubbornly kept his head up, his eyes following Denethor across the room. Those eyes were still attentive, still able to focus, in spite of it all, the dwarf was still able to think on his feet. The Steward knew that the pain would have had other Men howling on their knees but until now he had only heard growls, and Denethor was tiring, it took more and more effort to inflict new pain on the dwarf. This was not a battle of brute force, he reminded himself, but of wits and knowledge. “You must think you are resisting me,” he said like he was making conversation, walking towards the iron braziers. “That you are stronger than the pain. Maybe you still are… but there are things you can’t withstand. Why don’t you tell me how to break the spell on my son and I shall spare you further torment.”

 

“I cannot give you what you deny yourself.” Kíli felt the words rasping in his throat, his jaw hurt, but it was minor compared to the rest of his body. While the touch of the hand had left no visible marks on his body, every muscle and bone inside him burned in searing pain that lingered even after the hand was removed. It did not burn brightly like the blue fire, but it was a sickening, foul pain aching in his bones.

 

“What do you mean by that?” Denethor stepped closer, his flickering gaze trying to hold the Dwarf’s who refused to look into his eyes. “I do not deny myself anything.”

 

“You deny yourself your son’s love through your own deeds, your demands.” Kíli tried to steady his voice. “The love of a father is beyond demands, beyond expectations… You deny yourself the love of your sons, for you have consigned yourself to only love them in a form you have thought up for them.”

 

“Liar!” Denethor snapped, in his rage actually slapping the dwarf, the sound of the blows a loud echo in the dungeon. “I foresee my son’s path to destiny, and I shall free him of your manipulations.”

 

“Boromir chooses his own path, neither manipulated nor pushed by you.”

 

Denethor shook his head. The Dwarf thought he could confuse him with riddles; he would have to break him to get any truth from this creature. He turned and looked at him. “We all have things we fear,” he stated. “Things we hide so others don’t see that we are afraid. I had not expected a Dwarf’s fear to be hot metal.” He reached for a tong lying on the side of a brazier. “But then… few have been branded like cattle by the Goblins of the north.”

 

His words had immediate effect on the Dwarf: all color drained from his face, for a moment his expression, the steely mask failed and gave way for a much younger and more fearful expression. Although he regained control quickly enough, the mask snapping back into place and his dark eyes betrayed fear for the first time.

 

“I have been given to understand that those Goblins brand their prisoners on the back to simply tell them apart…” Denethor spoke slowly, deliberately now. “How crude… how unsophisticated. Their kind knows naught but the coarsest things.” He walked closer to his captive. “The back is at least discreet, is it not? Easy to hide such a mark along with the scars the lash left there… Kíli, slave of the Orcs.”

 

Kíli forbade himself to look at fire and whatever instruments the Steward was heating there, he knew if he saw them he would give away the fear, he would show it, when he must not. _All that must be endured can be endured. All pain can be borne._ He reminded himself of Dwalin’s words, he would not shame his friend, nor the trust his people had into him by giving in, or by begging, no matter how much the fear coiled inside him. “Why don’t you try their hospitality just to be sure?” The words came out in one angry shout at the old man. He had no idea what he spoke of, he had never suffered at the hands of Orcs, never been the plaything of their sport… he knew nothing of the world.

 

Denethor did not react to the words; instead he circled his prey, before grabbing Kíli’s left wrist. He noticed the black work tattoo inside it, two runes of names intertwined in a flame, how sentimental, how weak… to carve one’s dead family into the skin like longing for them to be still there. Pathetic.  “They say the hands are very important among your kind. How you can do delicate works with these paws is beyond me.” He studied Kíli’s strong, calloused hand, it was larger than a man’s hand, with strong fingers, hardened and marked by work as much as the sword- Denethor sniffed disdainfully. “Hardly the hand of a king – a paw like any stonebreaker will sport. Still…” He took the tong and removed a heated iron, an ancient steel seal of the City, from the brazier. The seal had once been used like all seals would, to seal letters and documents, but the long steel shaft with the steel inlay depicting the white tree of the city, could serve for other things too.  “In times of old a brand, a stigma would be branded on a convicted criminal, dwarf.” The Steward told him. “and this will mark you for what you are. Not even a slave… but a criminal of the foulest sort…”  He pressed the glowing stamp right into the Dwarf’s palm.  And this time Kíli screamed.

 

TRB

 

“Nothing,” Faramir reported to his brother, back again in the Captain’s Guardroom, one of the few places where they could talk undisturbedly. “I have shaken a lot of trees around our noble houses and what I got are apples of all kinds of intrigues sorts, but nothing even remotely connecting with our friend. Boromir, while the nobles a grumbling to Imrahil about Kíli, they do not dare to act out against him, because they are not blind to your friendship with him, and thus they are chosen their steps carefully.”

 

It was fifth afternoon hour and their search had turned up a lot of things, including a few conspiracies, but certainly not their friend. By now, Faramir could no longer deny he was worried, for there was no reasonable, or safe, explanation for their friend’s vanishing, and every hour that passed made a fate of pain and suffering for him more likely. If the Enemy could strike like that, right in their middle, at the very heart of their own city, no one was safe. The thought chilled Faramir’s bones, he was a Ranger, used to strike where the enemy did not expect it but he had rarely had the same tactics employed against him. How could one protect against such a strike? How to find the one who caused it? How could they go on trusting each other, when trust was so easily misplaced?

 

“He has to be still inside the city,” Boromir mused. “The Gates are guarded too well.” They left the guard room and went out into the yard again. “Which means we must focus our search on those parts of the city that would allow for a captive to be hidden. We can discount the Undercity this time, though.” Boromir wondered where they might start, any clue that could help them.

 

They had walked across the main citadel yard, when Faramir suddenly caught a glimpse on something glittering on the flagstones. He went towards the spot that was no twenty paces from the entrance of the tower where they had their quarters. “Boromir!” he called for his brother, as he squatted down.

 

“Faramir?” Boromir had followed his brother, fully aware that Faramir’s keen Ranger eyes often picked up the smallest clues. “Did you find something?”

 

Faramir rose again, opening his hand to show Boromir a small item. A steel clasp, smeared with blood and a streak of dark hair still entangled in it. “Kíli used to wear such,” he said.

 

“It is one of his,” Boromir had noticed the strange habit to wear braids early on their journey and had seen those steel clasps quite clearly. He looked to the ground where it had been found and back at the blood and hair on the small item. Kíli had not lost this by accident. “The Light preserve us… he was attacked not twenty feet away from our tower, right inside the citadel.” He frowned, if it had happened here, someone must have seen it. The Guards should have seen it.

 

He swiftly looked around and then strode down the yard towards the Citadel Gate where Thoroniâr was just assigned additional guards to several key spots of the citadel. “Any news on your search?” Boromir asked.

 

The Alaris’ shoulders squared slightly as he turned around to face Boromir. “No, my Captain. No one seems to have seen the Dwarf,” Thoroniâr replied evenly, but Boromir spotted unease in his face, and the Man would not meet his eyes.

 

“My brother found this in the upper yard,” Boromir opened his hand to show the Alaris the clasp. “It belonged to Kíli, aside from none of your guards finding it, it means something happened in the citadel in the early morning hours and you have received no report on it yet?” He saw how Thoroniâr’s eyes widened when he saw the clasp.

 

“No. But maybe the Guards believed this piece of… jewelry to belong to some maiden or maidservant. I will have them asked about it, once the Nightwatch returns for their shift.” The Alaris of the Tower Guard turned to hastily return to his duties.

 

Boromir tensed, he knew Thoroniâr, knew him since they both had been boys in this very citadel, and it took not a second glance to see that the Alaris was hiding something, or maybe not saying all he knew. A cold hand touched Boromir’s heart – he knew how persuasive the Enemy could be, how deep the Shadow could sink his claws into a man’s heart. How… how could Thoroniâr have fallen for it? He was loyal as a war hound and just as fierce. Another thought came to Boromir’s mind, if anyone knew the citadel front and back it was the Alaris of the Tower Guard, if anyone could have gotten Kíli out of the city… maybe sent off to the enemy camp… to Minas Morgul itself… it would be him. He did not want to think it, he did not want to picture his friend in those dungeons, in the night under the dread city. But that was where they would send him to learn of what had happened to the Ring. Inwardly Boromir prayed to any power that might be listening that he was wrong, that his friendship would not have condemned Kíli to die in the dungeons of Minas Morgul. Angrily he reached for the Alaris shoulder and spun him around.

 

“I have known you for more than thirty years, Thoroniâr,” he said fiercely, his eyes searching Thoroniâr’s face, he did not know what to look for, what signs a man turned to the enemy would show, but he hoped there would be a visible change, detectable to the naked eye. “and I have never known you to turn your back on me like this. Never, not even once. You know something – do not deny it. Speak!”

 

The proud Alaris of the Tower Guard took a step back from the fierce anger he was confronted with, he cast down his eyes, trying to avoid Boromir’s gaze. His hands were shaking, he curled them up in fists to hide it. “I cannot, my Lord,” he said in a low voice.

 

“Cannot?” Boromir’s frown deepened, what kind of compulsion could make a man silent like that? Was there a magic able to do this? “I command you to speak.”

 

Now Thoroniâr looked up, grim determination etched in his face. “Then I beg your forgiveness for not obeying, my Captain, but I cannot.”

 

For a long moment, Boromir simply studied the Man’s grey eyes. He knew his Men, he knew his troops, their leaders were familiar, only thus he had been able to lead them well. He had known Thoroniâr before they even had been soldiers, and he could read many things in the Man before him: fear, worry, and deep regret to have to oppose him among them. Whatever the other Man knew, Thoroniâr bore it like a burden. “Thoroniâr.” Boromir allowed for his voice to soften, to be less demanding. “There is only one other who could have ordered your silence. But why would he? Why is it you do not trust me anymore?”

 

“It is not mistrust, my Lord.” Thoroniâr’s eyes went past Boromir, trying to evade his gaze.

 

“It is distrust, Thoron, no matter how you phrase it.” A cold wind seemed to brush Boromir’s soul, Thoroniâr would always feel that he owed Denethor loyalty beyond even that of a soldier, a debt of gratitude and loyalty that harkened back to their childhood days. And while that debt was also rooted in their friendship, Boromir was angered that Thoroniâr, who had known the situation of his family longer than most, had not the sense to come to him with something like this. He grasped Thoroniârs arm forcefully, forcing the other man to look at him. “You have a simple choice here, Alaris,” he said coldly. “If my father forbade you to speak, you will have to choose between him and me. Will you be loyal to him, or are you still loyal to me?”

 

“Boromir!” Faramir had stepped beside them, releasing Boromir’s hold on Thoroniâr’s arm with one firm grip of his own. “You cannot make him chose like this. He cannot choose between his Lord and his Captain.”

 

“I can, Lord Faramir,” Thoroniâr said slowly, his shoulders straightening, as his jaw set in a determined line. “I must.” He faced Boromir, grey eyes searching Boromir’s glance, like there was an answer written there. Eventually, he spoke. “The Lord Denethor ordered me to apprehend the Dwarf named Kíli when he left the Citadel and bring him to the dungeon under the Tower of Kings. He still is there… as is your father.”

 

“Why?” Faramir’s widening eyes and for one moment slack jawed expression betrayed more of his shock to Boromir than the incredulous tone in his voice. His brother tried to find a reason, logic to what they had just heard, even when there might be none.

 

“That can wait for later,” Boromir said firmly. “You made the right choice, Thoroniâr… the hard choice, but the right one.” He hesitated for a moment; he had left Truefire at the guard room not expecting the need for a weapon in the citadel. He would get it… no… this, if it was what Thoroniâr’s words indicated would demand a more formal weapon. “I will need your sword.”

 

Thoroniâr drew the blade, handing it to Boromir hilt first. “It was always yours to command.” He meant those words, even as his grey eyes were deeply troubled.

 

Wordlessly, Boromir took the blade and went to the gate of the Tower of Kings. Only Faramir followed him. Whatever would come now, it was for them alone to face. For a moment, Thoroniâr watched them leave. Shame and fear warring inside him, he then straightened up. He had made his choice and he would stand by it. He followed Boromir to the tower.

 

TRB

 

Boromir had pushed open the door to the King’s Tower and hurried down the long flights of stairs that led to its dungeon. When he was halfway down the stairswell he heard the first scream,  rising from the deep and ringing from the walls of the tower, a hollow, hoarse howl of agony.  He had a hard time to recognize the voice, had it not been for that distinct deep timbre he would not have known for Kíli’s voice sounded raw and hoarse. He nearly halted his step, when he realized that Kíli’s voice was hoarse from screams, Boromir knew, he was too familiar with that kind of voice.  

 

He hastened down the stairs, stopping on the last flight when he could see the dungeon. It was one large dungeon cell only, Kíli had been chained with the heavy sealed chains descending from the ceiling, and by now they seemed to be the only thing keeping him  standing, his arms were bent and leaning heavily in the chain’s grip, disjointing his shoulders. The entire body covered sweat and shaking, shaking from pain.

 

Denethor had just recovered something from a brazier two metal rings of sorts. Horrified Boromir watched as the old man put them over Kíli’s hands, so their glowing seals burned into the palm. Stigmas. In times of old those would have marked convicted criminal. But it was not until Denethor’s hand touched Kíli’s naked skin, that his whole body was arching up, like under a whip of sheer agony, the scream even drowning out the chocked sound behind Boromir that betrayed his brother’s horror at this scene more than anything.

 

“You will tell me how you enchanted my son, and how to break your bane on him,” the Steward demanded. “And you will beg for my forgiveness before I permit your death.”

 

For a moment Boromir froze – was this why his father… no he could not think of him like that, why Denethor was doing that? Out of the misguided belief he had fallen under an enchantment? How… how could he? How could he dare to turn on the very friend that had saved Boromir from the enchantment of the ring?

 

“If I ever were to do this, it was me whom I could not forgive.” Kíli’s voice was rough; the words came out in gasps but Boromir noticed a still clear glance in his gaze and a defined purpose when he spoke. No begging, no incoherent words, Kíli was a long way from being broken, and that alone bespoke strength his tormented body was any indication how far Denethor had gone.

 

With rising anger, Boromir watched his father casually inflicting pain on his friend with a cold cruelty that he had never believed him capable of. “Enough!” he bellowed, storming down the last flight of stairs, sword in hand. “You will end this!”

 

The Steward turned around, his face falling. “My son…” he whispered. “He stole you from me… he stole your love, your loyalty.” With one fluent move, the Steward drew his own sword, advancing towards his son. “I will not allow him to corrupt you.”

 

Boromir parried the attacks with practiced ease. While his father was a solid swordsman, he lacked the years of war that had shaped Boromir. “Kíli saved my life, Father,” he said, trying to reason with the old man. “Without him, I would not have lived to come home.” He hoped that the old man would hear him, that he somehow could not reach him, shame and anger warred inside Boromir, shame and pain at seeing his father fallen to such vile depths and anger that Denethor had allowed himself to be twisted like that. Had he forgotten about honor, about loyalty, about friendship? Was all that he cared for power and his own visions?

 

“Lies! He is lying to you…” Denethor attacked again, more fiercely this time, their swords clashed loudly, steel ringing out against the walls of the ancient dungeon. “He will confess once he is properly broken… He was an Orc slave once – his will is weak.”

 

Orc-slave… Boromir knew that Kíli had seen horrors in their hands, he had known as much ever since seeing the back injuries, and after seeing what Eriador was like, he admired the strength of Kíli to dare wander it alone, to fight alone to protect his people trapped in the lone lands. How could Denethor even dare to judge on that? Or to use it against him?  “You have become a monster.” Inside him, the anger and the whispers of his dreams welled up. “You are nothing but a pathetic fool…”

 

“Boromir!” Kíli shouted,his entire body was shaking with pain and at first his own voice failed him. He put some pressure into is agonized shoulders and used the leverage of the chains to make himself stand, fresh stabs of agony running through his body, but he pushed beyond that. _Never let pain be stronger than yourself, never allow agony to rule you, true strength is overcoming your own body._ The words echoed in his mind and he drew strength from them.  “Boromir! You will not kill him.” The sentence came out with all the authority Kíli could give it. “Nothing he did here is worth patricide. Nothing he did here is worth you becoming a murderer for it. You will not kill him!”

 

Faramir moved along the other wall of the dungeon, past Kíli to flank Denethor, he too had drawn his sword as he advanced past the captive dwarf towards his father.

 

Denethor sneered at the Dwarven Prince, when he heard the order snapped at his son. In this one moment, he could see the Prince in exile clearly, and he hated him all the more. Another fallen house, another thief.  “There are many ways to prevent your plans, Dwarf,” he spat, “other than breaking you.” In his hand appeared a dagger, but instead of defending himself, he threw it, his hand was shaking, throwing his aim only slightly off the blade buried itself deep into Faramir’s chest.

 

The silvery blade spun through the air and hit Faramir squarely, cutting through his leather armor effortlessly. The Ranger’s sword cluttered to the hard stone floor, as Faramir dropped to his knees, hands reaching for the weapon impaling his chest. He struggled to keep upright for a moment before he fell to the ground, felled by his own father’s stroke. “Fari!” Boromir’s shout was tinged in horror, in the absolute shock of seeing his father turn on Faramir. He could hear the pained rattling of Faramir’s breath, and see the body curl up in pain.

 

Denethor’s eyes widened in shock when he saw his son on the ground, blood pooling beneath his body. “Faramir…” For only one merciless moment, the sanity returned and he saw with clear eyes how Faramir sank to the ground, blood smearing his body. His son… his son was dying. Faramir tried to raise his hand towards him.

 

“Father…” The one word was all it took to jab so painfully at the ray of sanity, to carve up Denethor’s soul with agony. Even as the sanity fled the horror of his own deeds, the pain remained the agony of losing his son… his sons… to enslavement.

 

“I will not be made a servant…” Denethor grabbed the sword directed at his chest, meant to hold him in check, the tip was only a hand’s breath from him. Boromir reacted in reflex, trying to break the blade free but Denethor in his desperation was stronger, he held his grasp on the sword firmly and plunged into it, impaling himself on Boromir’s blade.

 

The sword slipped from Boromir’s hand as the Steward’s body hit the ground, but Boromir did not care: he hurried to Faramir, kneeling down beside him, disregarding the blood on the ground; he lifted Faramir’s injured body up, holding him. “Boromir…” Faramir’s voice was soft, weak. “do not… do not hate him… he was not… not himself.”

 

“Sh… don’t waste strength on him,” Boromir whispered gently, holding his brother, much like he had when Fari had been younger and ill. “Conserve your strength.” Carefully he took stock of the wound. He could tell that the dagger had missed his heart, but the wound was deep and dangerous. Very gently, Boromir cradled his younger brother against his chest. That their own father would not stop short of killing him was beyond any nightmare the Ring had ever inflicted on him. He felt Faramir shake, his body was cold, the shock of the wound setting fully in.

 

“Boromir,” Faramir’s voice was low, his speech labored, even as he managed to speak more clearly than before, he was marshaling his waning strength into the words. “You must go on alone… you can’t let this break you… I know you are strong… do not allow this… this to take your soul. Please, brother…”

 

The idea of going on alone, without his family, was one Boromir could hardly bear to think off, losing his brother like this… no… he did not even want to picture it. Words failed him and he could only hold his brother close, while the blood streamed from the wound and his breath became slower and slower.

 

 


	18. A spark to light embers

** Chapter 17: A spark to light embers **

****

Steps on the stairs made Boromir look up; Thoroniâr had followed them after all, and now was hurrying down the stairs into the main dungeon room. Boromir raised his chin, pointing the Man towards the captive. Like always Thoroniâr understood without the need to actually hear the order and walked past Boromir to release the bindings that still chained Kíli. The Dwarf’s knees buckled, and were it not for the grip of the other Man he’d have fallen.

 

Kíli had tried to stand on his own, but eventually needed to lean on the soldier’s arm, to not fall, his legs would not support him. He did not flinch away from the man who had arrested him only… how many?... hours before, for he too had seen the unspoken order from Boromir, it answered all questions where Thoroniâr’s loyalties eventually lay. He strained his hands to bent the steel wire rings of the stigma seals on his hands, to loosen them, he flung away the glowing seals, they cluttered down on the cold floor. But his hands burned with the pain of the brands, the stigmas had eaten deeply into the muscle leaving his hands feel like they had been crippled, every muscle in his body ached with the crippling pain Denethor had inflicted, even breathing was a movement that caused sharp spikes of pain to rise in his chest, like an arrow slowly pressing deeper and deeper into his lung. Kíli was aware that the pain was unreal, except for his hands and burning shoulders, none of the other pains was caused by injury, they were echoes and phantoms of the mind, called into being by Denethor.

 

Across the room, he saw Boromir gently rest his brother on his knees, blood forming a dark stain on the floor. Taking a slow, deliberate breath, accepting the pain it brought, Kíli forced himself to stand on his own, ignoring the fierce pain. _All that must be endured can be endured._ He nearly could hear Dwalin’s gruff voice, like he had so many years ago during their escape from Goblin Town. Without the mighty warrior’s aid back then, Kíli would have never managed to keep up with the group during their chaotic flight from the dens under the Misty Mountains, nor would he have recovered from the Goblin King’s hospitality. _What must be endured can be endured. All pains can be borne. It is our decision to break or stand._ If Thorin had taught Kíli to be a leader, Dwalin had taught him to be a warrior. Another slow breath, the pain became more intense, and Kíli no longer tried to ignore it, but embraced it, drew it inside, accepted that it was there. He let go of the hold he had on Thoroniâr’s arm, seeing the man’s eyes widen in surprise. Making the first step on his own, another wave of burning pain erupted in his bones, and again Kíli did not push it away, during the worst moments of what had transpired here, he had been tempted to give in, letting go of the pain and fade into the darkness of the stones where neither pain nor wakefulness could exist. Dying would have been easy, surrounded in a room of stone, resting on a mighty rock, the foothills of ancient Mindolluin, Kíli could have willed himself to return to the stone, to the sleep from whence there was no waking, the temptation had been there – to end all the pain, to end the long loneliness and just sleep. Kíli’s eyes fell to the brothers, what had been done to them and he found that he had to face living again and his feet would carry him through another day.

 

Kíli walked over to them, each step hurting more than the one before, but he did not let the pain deter him. He knelt down beside them on the floor. Faramir was still bleeding, the blade was still embedded into the wound, positioned a little left of the chest bone, though dwarves did not share the exact anatomy of men, it told Kíli enough. “It must have grazed the lung,” he whispered. Denethor’s last strike had been cruel and effective, destroying his own son in hate and rage.

 

Boromir’s glance was grim, though his ashen face betrayed all too clearly the pain he was in. “Can you hold him?” he asked, the question half a statement, as he shifted Faramir enough to rest against Kíli.

 

Kíli understood without further discussions. He extended one of his strong arms under Faramir’s shoulders, the other around his side, leaving enough air between the wounded man and his knees to allow Boromir room to work.

 

Faramir’s eyes went back to his brother. “What are you…” his breath came rattling.

 

“You need to hang on, Fari,” Boromir’s voice was rough, mixing with a tearing sound, as Boromir swiftly parted the soft material of his long cloak into the broad stripes. His hand closed around the hilt of the dagger, pulling it free with one clean move. He dropped it aside at once, and pressed the first stripe of cloth on the wound. Kíli brought his hand up to put pressure on it, while Boromir used the second stripe to fixate the first with a tight bandage, a third stripe followed, the bandage became red swiftly, but it slowed the flow of blood from the wound.

 

Faramir’s breathing became more labored, his hands curling into firsts in pain. Kíli sighed, it would not be enough. The lung was injured and that killed most injured fighters, if they lived past the initial wound at all. When the bandages were affixed around Faramir’s chest, he shifted Faramir back to his brother’s hold. If this was Faramir’s last hour in this world, he should be with the one he loved, with the one who loved him best.

 

Freed up for the moment, Kíli looked up to Thoroniâr, who had already mounted the stairs to send a guard for a healer, though it was doubtful that a healer could bring any more help here. “Where did you bring my sword after you brought me here?” he asked.

 

The Alaris of the Tower Guard looked at him, slackjawed. “Your anger may be justified, Dwarf, but this is not the time for revenge, or for even thinking of putting a Man out of his misery.”

 

Pushing himself to his feet, Kíli had to exercise some force of will to stand, to not simply falter against the next wall. He breathed out slowly, then walked towards the stairs facing the towering guardsman. A hint of anger rose inside him, this warrior had ventured into matters he did neither understand nor comprehend fully, a little more thinking would do him a world of good. “This is not about revenge, you stubborn mule,” he growled. “There might be a way to save Faramir yet, but to do so I need that sword. If you love your Lord, you’ll get it quickly.”

 

And suddenly it all made sense, for the first time Thoroniâr felt like a glimpse of understanding, because Denethor in all his orders had accused the weapon to be be-spelled. Maybe it was just different, not a magic to enchant or ensnare but something else entirely. He had never considered that the nature of that magic might be something else than Lord Denethor had claimed.  He sprinted up the stairs and towards the guard armory where he had left the captive’s weapons. The weapons were still placed inside one of the armory chests where Thoroniâr had left them, aside of the sword the dwarf had carried an impressive number of daggers, throwing knives and other small weapons, many of them older and well used but all of them sharp and deadly. He packed them aside to retrieve the blade that lay on the bottom of the pile.

 

The armory door flew open and Veryan of Dol Amroth strode in, his breath was flying, he must have been running to get here. “Thoroniâr, finally I find you; no can tell me where Lord Denethor or his sons are... A fourth marching column has appeared at the outer fields and a decision needs to be made.”

 

Thoroniâr grabbed the sword from the bottom of the chest in a hurry before even turning to Veryan. His pulse was racing and a whirlwind of thoughts were vying inside his mind. The war was upon them and the Enemy had not been needed to wreak havoc inside their own camp. Faramir was dying and he had no time to loose. He also knew that the truth of Denethor’s deeds must never come to light; it would forever tarnish his noble sons’ reputations. And he had to get back to the tower of Kings swiftly. “Veryan.” Thoroniâr strode to the door, meeting his friend’s eyes. “Denethor is dead, Veryan, killed by a spy, Faramir was severely injured in the fighting.”

 

Veryan’s eyes widened, he stepped backward from the Thoroniâr, his hands seeking the hold of the stone doorframe “By the Light, how bad is it?”

 

“We don’t know if he’ll live… it looks bad. His brother is with him,” Thoroniâr said grimly.

 

“Veryan!” A booming, deep voice echoed across the yard. Both men, Thoroniâr and Veryan, stepped through the door outside to see a short, bald figure approach them, followed by a second dwarf. Dwalin did not run but he strode as fast as most men would. “Outlook reports that the second marching column is splitting up, half are riders the others on foot – they are going to set up a full encirclement if they keep going like this. The Outlook also has spotted siege engines with the third column and we need to…” The dwarf stopped dead midsentence when his eyes fell on the sword in Thoroniâr’s hands. You!” He shouted. “I should have known – one of you had to have taken him.” The dwarf drew his axes.

 

Thoroniâr wished the dwarf, the war and the sword to the Gate of Night, there was no time for this. “Dwalin, I was sent to bring it to Kíli.” He snapped at the angry dwarf. “and there is no time to be lost. A life may depend on it.”

 

Veryan’s hand had sunken to his sword, he did not know what was going on here, but their alliance seemed to be fraying by the moment. “Dwalin, I need a full report on the situation,” he said, hoping he could draw the dwarf’s anger from the blade back to the pressing matters again – the war.

 

Narrow eyes surveyed him angrily. “Do you think I care if your city burns, when one of yours is behind my _King_ having vanished?” he grumbled, his deep voice reverberating with anger. “If something happened to Kíli, I shall gladly help the Easterlings to raze this miserable hovel off the face of the Earth.”

 

“No.” Thirán had stepped up beside Dwalin, and in that moment there was a calm, firm authority in his voice that could not be denied. “This is not what Kíli would have wanted. Thoroniâr, you will lead Dwalin to Kíli without delay. Veryan, we go back and see to the walls.”

 

Slowly, very slowly, Dwalin lowered his axe. “Frérin.” He said in a low growl, when he put the weapons away and looked at Thoroniâr. “I better find Kíli alive… and well.”

 

“I will take you to him, he is with Lord Boromir,” Thoroniâr decided swiftly, his eyes going back to Veryan. He knew Boromir, if the Lord Captain heard of the situation outside before the walls, he would go at once to defend the city, though it meant leaving his brother to die alone. He would always do his duty, even if it broke his heart to do so. “You are Boromir’s second in command – you deal with whatever the enemy forays into this land are. I’ll get word to you once there is news of Faramir.”

 

Veryan heard the words and understood what Thoroniâr was saying, they both knew the brothers well. He did not even dare to imagine what it would do to Boromir to lose both, his father and his beloved brother within the same day. Giving him the time to say his goodbyes, or grieve, was the least he could do. And Thoroniâr was agitated, if the cold sweat on his brow, the way he grabbed that strange sword and the slight tremor in his arms was any indication. “Hurry, I will take care of the walls.” He said, before he turned and raced back down towards the first wall.

.

 

TRB

 

Down in the dungeon, Boromir was kneeling on the cold stone floor, Faramir resting on his knees, the older brother holding him close, his eyes always on the wounded man. “You need to hold out, Fari… we cannot move you yet,” he whispered. Kíli could hear the strain in Boromir’s voice, it was close to cracking, but there were neither tears nor a breakdown of desperation, in the midst of destruction Boromir was keeping it together.

 

Kíli had gone to the heap of armor and clothes that had been taken from him when he was arrested, under the chainmail armor puddled in a heap he retrieved his coat, a typical dwarven travelling coat, made of sturdy leather with fur inside to keep warm, and a dark green hood. Going back to the brothers, he knelt down to spread the warm material over Faramir. “We need to keep him warm and awake,” Kíli said softly. “It won’t work when he is passed out. There is something about being able to accept the gift in the spell.”

 

“I can’t ask you to do this, Kíli.” Boromir found that he was hardly able to keep his voice from cracking, nor did he have the will to try. He felt Faramir’s weakening from sag against him and it tore his heart. “You said it could not be done twice, and look what it did to you the first time already.”

 

“I said I was told that no one dared to use it twice,” Kíli corrected him gently, he had gotten up again and used his foot to push one of the braziers closer. “and it did nothing bad. A few years matter little if you have a Dwarven lifespan. Not that any lifespan might be longer than the next few days, all things considered.” Looking at the flames inside the brazier, Kíli reached for the familiar friends, asking them to burn stronger, fanning the flame to give   greater warmth to their wounded friend.

 

Before Boromir could answer, hurried steps echoed on the stairs, heavy boots clanking on the stone. Thoroniâr returned and Dwalin followed him. The Dwarf had heard the conversation of the two Gondorians in the courtyard and had not let himself be sent away.

 

 When Dwalin saw Kíli, he pushed Thoroniâr aside roughly and rushed to his side. Before he could speak Kíli had reached for Dwalin’s hand, placing two fingers on the back of the broad paw, a quick Iglishmêk gesture, that asked him to be silent for now. It cost Dwalin all his discipline to obey that order, one look at Kíli’s pale face and wounded state told him enough of what must have transpired down here. This was a dungeon, and one that had seen fresh use, it took only one quick glance to see the dead body fallen against the wall and the wounded man on the ground, closely held by Captain Boromir. But what he felt most of all was the fire, Kíli had made it burn brighter, to give warmth and what protection such a small flame might provide, protecting others before even thinking of himself. Dwalin stepped closer to the brazier, he might not be a smith or gifted in the arcane arts, but he was a dwarf, the fire spoke to him. The flames became darker when he touched them, burning hotter if more aggressively. They would give the warmth that was needed.

 

Kíli gave Dwalin a grateful nod, seeing his friend was holding back no matter how angry he was. He extended his hand towards the Guardsman, who handed him the dragonsword.

 

 “How… how can this blade help save Lord Faramir?” Thoroniâr asked, his voice low and doubtful.

 

“It holds a powerful spell that may yet heal him,” Kíli explained, gritting his teeth as he took the sword, his injured hands burning in fresh pain as they touched the Dragon tooth hilt. The blade had never felt heavier, his fingers refused to hold tightly onto the hilt and he nearly dropped the blade. He inhaled sharply and intertwined his fingers with the guard, to put less pressure on his palms.

 

“It is what you tried for Balin…” Dwalin whispered. “It did not work then…”

 

Sadly, Kíli looked to his old friend, of course he would remember the spell rebounded from his brother, the one desperate attempt to save an old and dear friend.“ It had pained him deeply that he had been unable to save the great old Dwarf. “Balin was too far gone already,” he said softly, as he knelt down beside Faramir, who was barely conscious clinging to his brother. “it might have worked, had I reached you sooner.” Kíli well remembered how the spell had crumbled back then. And he had no time for either, nor for discussions with Dwalin, Faramir was with them still, but soon his soul would take to the journey across the Neverseas, and then it would be too late.

 

“Kíli… what if it kills you this time?” Boromir wished with all his heart he could save his brother, that there was a way to bring back Faramir. The very thought of losing him frightened him, he held onto his brother like sheer willpower could keep the black figure of death away. The temptation to simply accept Kíli’s offer was great, he did not make Kíli do this, the dwarf had offered out of his own volition. But Boromir knew his friend by now, Kíli protected others first and foremost, no matter what happened to him. Boromir knew not how he could face losing his brother, but he also knew that he could not face Faramir surviving at the price of a friend’s life. Whenever he had been forced to sacrifice troops, comrades, sometimes friends, it had been rational decisions, necessary ones to achieve strategic goals. To this very day he had been spared the brutal decision to choose who was to life and die without any rationale, without any goal beyond survival. He could not make that choice. “Faramir said it was a sacrificial spell, and it took a brutal toll on you the last time.”

 

Stubbornly, Kíli shook his head, unwilling to lose time to debate but still forced to do so. “Boromir, this spell was never meant for mortals; it was invented by the High Elves during the First Age. If all that the one who taught me the spell said is true, they were among the greatest in their magic: war-like, fierce, and the closest thing of being cast from to the light as any Elf could be. To them, the toll was on their souls, and while it is different for mortals, I doubt it will kill me this time. It is Faramir’s only chance now.”

 

"This time? You mean you've used it before?" Dwalin all but shouted, this time he left the fire that was burning happily and squatted down beside Kíli, clearly willing to protect him, though he hardly knew how.

 

The younger Dwarf sighed, turning his head to look at Dwalin and the older dwarf could see fierce determination in the black eyes, the same stubborn will that had carried Thorin through battle and exile, the same expression when Thorin had been faced with the choice to either sacrifice one of his followers or perish himself Dwalin knew what Thorin’s choices had been and he knew how Kíli would choose. "I did use it once, old friend, and it worked. I will not claim that it is not hard to weave, but it can be done." Kíli said firmly.

 

“Could another do it?” Thoroniâr asked. The guardsman had not interfered so far, now he had comes closer, his eyes dark and worried as he looked at Faramir. Kíli could read a lot of worry, conflict and loyalty in the guardsman’s stance. He might not like the man for sending him to this dungeon but he could see that he was absolutely devoted to his Lords.

 

Kíli shook his head, he balanced the sword against his knee as he lightly touched Faramir’s neck, checking his pulse. The Ranger was breathing slowly, aware of his surroundings but the peace – the calm of dying – was settling in, he would go as calmly and composed as Boromir had in Amon Hen. “No. You would have to know how to call the spell from the Dragon’s tooth, not to mention that the words are in ancient Quenya – you’d never be able to pronounce them right. And if it shaves off ten years of your life, you will be an old warrior.”

 

“I will do it,” Boromir said firmly. “He is my brother, Kíli, and I let things get so far… It has to be me.”

 

 _It has to be me…_ The words made Kíli shiver, an icy hand touching his heart. He had heard those words before.

 

_Kíli stood with his back to a bloody rock; nothing distinguished this rock from the thousand others on the bloody fields of Dale. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds, some were minor, scratches and deeper cuts, but two of them had hacked deeply through his armor, a stab in the side of his chest burned with every breath he took and the pain in his left leg had gone from a dull ache to a sharp stinging whenever he moved.  In his hand his blade, black with Orc blood, the dwarven sword felt so heavy in his hands, like it was a war-hammer twice the size. He did not dare loosen his hard hold on the hilt, lest he’d drop the weapon. Corpses lay around him everywhere: Orcs, Dwarves, Men and Elves that death had reaped with the same merciless stroke of his sword, ending all their differences and conflicts in the cold slumber from which there was no return. When Thorin had charged at Azog, rallying what was left of the failing armies, Kíli and his brother had been by his side, cutting their way through the Orc host, shielding him the best they could. Kíli had been able to draw off most of Azog_ _’_ _s fearsome guard, while Thorin and Fili charged onwards. Kíli pushed away from the rock and stormed uphill where the fight was still in full rage. He saw Azog come about and swing his mace; it was aimed for Thorin but Fili was between their uncle and the deadly attack. The mace flung him high into the air, his body crashing down only steps away from Kíli. Knees slamming into the gory smear that was left of the earth, Kíli tried to bite back a sob at seeing his mangled body. Fili reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Had to be me… I_ _’_ _m the eldest…” He coughed; his body went rigid before convulsing so bad that Kíli expected to hear the bones snap at any moment. Fíli’s breath was ragged as he forced himself to a momentary stillness. “Fate gave Mother two sons… one would never have made it…” Blood stained his lips. “Go, Kíli… save Thorin – protect our King…”_

Tears burned in the corners of Kíli’s eyes and he clasped his free hand over his mouth to stifle the sob burning in his throat. Fíli… dear, brave Fíli, dying alone so he could try to save Thorin. It had been in vain, Kíli had failed and Thorin had died, passing into Mahal’s halls beside his eldest nephew. But Kíli understood now. Boromir had to do this: he was the big brother – he could not do any less. Much like Fili had been there for Kíli for as long as he had lived. “We’ll do it together,” he offered. “Between us, we should be strong enough.”

 

“Agreed.” Boromir could feel Faramir go still, his head sagging as his breathing became slow and even. “No, Fari, you can’t…” he lightly shook the wounded fighter to make him wake up,; Faramir was barely hanging onto his consciousness. If he lost consciousness and did not wake, he was lost to them. He could not let this happen, Boromir’s hands tightened on Faramir’s arms. He did not know if it was the pain from his grip or his voice that made Faramir’s eyes flutter open again.

 

“S’cold…” Faramir’s voice was soft and slurred.

 

“You will be better soon,” Boromir told him. “just a little longer. You need to stay with us.”

 

They placed the Dragon hilt between his hands, Boromir gently closing Faramir’s fingers around the hilt, though it threatened to slip from Faramir’s weakening grasp, like life itself was slipping away from him. The white polished material seemed aglow with warmth. Boromir put his hand on the hilt, steadying the weapon in his brother’s hand; Kíli placed his atop, ignoring the burning wound in his palm. “Speak with me…” he said softly.

 

Do not speak of hope forlorn

though night may cloud your eyes,

from darkness rises a new morn'

and so the darkness dies.

 

Don't fear the long dark night ahead,

when dusk begins to rise,

you fought, you stood and you have bled,

and so the darkness dies.

 

Raise your eyes towards the stars

before the darkness flies,

they call you home from all the wars

and so the darkness dies.

 

Blue runes began to shine on the sword hilt, enveloping the blade and the three men in an eerie light, like cold flames running through them. Pure agony ripped through Boromir as the flames touched him. It was not induced by them, but by something deeper, reaching inside him and draining on his very essence. In these unearthly moments, he could feel the pain shared by his brother and by Kíli, their presences linked his so strongly he swore he saw the mithril chain binding them to one another. Then the emptiness came: a vast blackness swallowing them up, but they still were together, even as there was nothing but blackness stretching around them, a place that held nothing but sleep. And there in the darkness he saw him, not as the old man or fearsome wraith Men so often would paint him as – the man who stood tall in the vast emptiness was a warrior, a guardian to all those who crossed into this darkness. His glance at Boromir lasted only for the moment a feather might need to touch a pond but longer than the Gondorian’s entire life. A great calm spread through him. For all his life he had been told that the gift of mortality was a bitter one. Now he knew they were wrong. This warrior was no dread horror, no cruel end, it was by his mercy that Men would be permitted to leave their pains and burdens behind and come home.

 

It was then that he saw the light, a warm, soft radiance touching him, Boromir could neither explain nor even try to understand it, but within the rays of that disembodied light he felt safe, protected, even in the void between life and death. There was no place that this light would not shine on, and no darkness, no shadow would be perpetual before it. Only then he realized he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the warrior was gone. And while he was still in the emptiness, he was not alone any more. It was the strangest of things to see the emptiness end, where it was touched by the light of a roaring fire, the blazing light of a forge. It was not the light he had seen before but he knew beyond doubt that the ray of light had guided him here. Before that fire he saw Kíli, his figure illuminated by the flames. He stood with his hand raised, like reaching out for something -  and only then Boromir saw the figure of a younger dwarf with blond hair, standing inside the forge. Their hands touched midair, and the strange dwarf smiled at Kíli.   

 

It all faded away, the void, the fire, the light and suddenly Boromir felt the room again, the stones under his knees, heard the hissing brazier and the jingle of Dwalin’s armor as the warrior moved back and forth restlessly. Never before Boromir had felt his body so small, so tight, after seeing the void, feeling the true boundaries of his soul, the heavy muscle and bone of his own form seemed a crashing weight, a narrow prison to hold him. A sharp, deep crack resonated from the walls. The Dragon sword shattered, the blade cracking into pieces as the Dragon’s tooth was consumed by the blue fire. Nothing remained but a few broken pieces of the blade.

 

 Faramir blinked and sat up, with ease, his hand went to the makeshift bandage, eyes wide in disbelief. With a nearly impatient movement of his hands he pried away the blood-soaked dressings, revealing nothing under it – the wound was entirely gone, no scar, no other mark heralding that there had been a blade embedded into his body only moments before.

 

Boromir’s gaze went from his brother to Kíli, who was kneeling on the ground with them, he too was alive. Relief, a relief so strong that it felt like the River Anduin itself in spring, flooded through him. They lived, neither had been taken into the night, they had come through this darkness. Impulsively he hugged Faramir, feeling his brother return to the hug. They lived. No matter what came, they lived. “I thought I’d lost you…” Boromir hardly recognized his own voice, when he finally managed to push out that whisper.

 

Faramir pulled back, grasping his shoulders. Their eyes met and Faramir smiled. “You pulled me back,” Faramir said, his voice shaky too. “you and Kíli.”

 

Both brothers turned to Kíli, to draw him into a hug with them both. The dwarf smiled, strong arms curling around their shoulders in a fierce embrace. Boromir had been more careful with that hug, knowing Kíli was injured, but when their friend pulled back he noticed how easy and smooth Kíli’s movements were again and that the pained rigor of his hands was gone too.

 

“Your hands?” he asked. He had seen Kíli’s shape prior to the spell and their friend would need a healer.

 

Kíli raised his hands, they were free of pain of now, as was his body. He still felt the twinge of the bite wound in his side, but everything else, the pain from Denethor’s hands, the fresh burn wounds… he did not feel them anymore. And he could move his hands again. Slowly Kíli opened his hands for the brothers to see. . Where the searing wounds had been; the skin had healed and instead of a branded seal something else had appeared inside them – the wings of a raven, one each, shone in deep black inside his palms.

 

TRB

 

When Imrahil approached the outer battlements, he was surprised to find Veryan in charge of defense. His son was striding along the upper battlements, speaking to two Dwarven warriors, and the Banner Leader of the soldiers on first wall, while they went. “We can’t bar the Gate entirely, Bofur. Much as I’d like to bury it behind all the earth and rocks we can find, we’ll need access to it if we need to risk another foray into the field. The City does not have another Gate to permit riders in, and hope is still that Rohan will honor their vows.” He pointed down to the walls of the outer ward. “But Thirán, if your idea works and you can create some chaos amongst their foray troops, it will slow their setting up camp considerably.”

 

The dwarf called Thirán stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. “They make the mistake to use Mountain Orcs for their lowly work, for digging trenches and fortifications, and I know their kind all too well. Before night falls, you’ll have some nice ruckus down there, you have my word on that.”

 

Bofur had silently studied the walls and the gate. “That gauntlet is well thought out, Veryan,” he said. “if we place our fires along those walls, we should not run out of hot water and hot tar – Orcs hade scalding as much as we do.”

 

Imrahil did not approach him but silently watched. Years ago, when he had permitted his youngest to be raised here in Minas Tirith, in the house of his recently widowed brother-in-law, he had done so out of compassion and out of respect for his late sister Findulas. She had wished for her sons to have friends, something the prideful Steward often had prevented. But he had tolerated Veryan, who with his dark hair and proud bearing was a vivid image of his aunt. While Veryan’s rise in Gondor’s armies was a source of pride for the family, it also was a source of contention. Raised in this City, raised close to the war ravaging Gondor’s borders, Veryan had become a warrior, a youth who had too early followed the Steward’s eldest into the fight. He had all the skill and deadly abilities of a Swan Knight, but none of their gentleness, or appreciation for things other than war. And he held most of Gondor’s nobility in firm disdain, siding with Boromir on most matters. The glance Veryan had shot him during their meeting earlier in the day had been enough to remind Imrahil of this.

 

Imrahil had four sons: one already dead and buried near the ruined Watchtowers a few leagues north of Osgiliath; two Swan Knights, both deployed in Minas Tirith at this very moment; and Veryan. All his sons served Gondor, all of his sons had been sent into battle to protect her, and in moments like these, Imrahil felt that burden all the heavier.

 

Veryan saw him and after dismissing the soldier with a curt gesture, joined him in the ward. “What brings you down here, Father?” he asked in a hushed voice. His arched eyebrow clearly indicating his surprise to see Imrahil.  .

 

“I heard some grumbling from Hirluin of Morthron and… where are the Lord Steward’s sons?” he asked, frowning. Neither Boromir nor Faramir were visible in near vicinity, and there was no doubt that Veryan had command at the moment. Had both brothers already taken to risky forays into enemy lines?

 

“You haven’t heard yet…” Veryan sighed, rubbing his hand across his brow, his shoulders slumping slightly, the posture of the stern Swan Knight melting away for a moment “Father, Lord Denethor was slain by a traitor a few hours ago. Lord Faramir was injured defending him. At least Boromir made short work of whoever the treacherous bastard was. Thoroniâr got word out to me.”

 

“Denethor… dead?” Imrahil stared at his son with an unfocused gaze before blinking rapidly. “Murdered, you say? Are you… are you sure?”

 

“Yes, Thoroniâr apprehended a traitor some time during the night, but he got loose again and killed the Steward.” Veryan’s eyes went to the Gate, the walls and the field beyond, he let out a slow breath and straightened his shoulders once more. “Boromir is now Steward of Gondor – or he will be once this war is over.”

 

“But where is he?” Imrahil could see the implications arise almost immediately. It had been clear that Boromir would be Steward one day, though most of the noble council agreed he’d not make a good Steward by any length – too much a warrior, too little a Lord. But now in the midst of war coming to Gondor, with the darkness unleashed, he might be the one Steward to see them through this.

 

“He is at the Citadel.” Veryan’s voice sounded like this was the most obvious thing of them all. His eyes went back to his father and he crossed his arms in front of his chest, the moment of weakness passing and the soldier against stepping into the foreground. . “Listen… the Enemy won’t be doing much except setting camp this night… I doubt they are ready to act come morning. We have Rangers out there creating chaos among the Orc units, and Thirán seems to know more of those Mountain Orcs by name, than I can count. He will incite some nice riots among before long, once night falls we’ll burn the oil that’s been deposited in every trench and cranny during our retreat, which should scorch their camps nicely. The brothers… they will have only this one night to mourn their father… and I intend to give them this one night. If war has its season, so has grief.”

 

It was a rare display of compassion Imrahil saw in his son and he silently agreed. The council and the noble houses had to be informed too, but he could do that himself. Tomorrow he would send several Men to Rath Dínen: an honor guard for the departed Steward. There would be no time for ceremonies. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Veryan call out to Thoroniâr of the Tower Guard, who came hurrying down the long street that descended form the second gate. The Alaris joined them, along with the Dwarven war-master Dwalin. “Any news?” Veryan asked and Imrahil could see the hope shining in his eyes, the voice going from the calm command voice to a more lively, more caring tone. He too hoped that Lord Faramir would survive, losing him along with his father would be a painful blow to this city… and certainly serve to even more unbalance his older brother Boromir.

 

“Good news,” Thoroniâr said, and he actually smiled, something that happened rarely. “Faramir was healed; he will be permitted to stay with us. But… it took much out of all of them.”

 

“Then we will take care of the City till morning,” Veryan said. “Beregond has done good work in your place, Thoroniâr. Dwalin…”

 

“I see you are preparing for the siege already.” The old Dwarf looked about. “We’ll need water, and more cover. These are Orcs; they’ll bring catapults.”

 

Imrahil stepped back, leaving them to their tasks. Shaken though he was by the news of Denethor’s departure, he felt more worry even for the present. The Enemy was at their front gates, unleashing a storm like the world of Men had not seen in generations beyond counting… and the heart of the city was weakened. Denethor’s leadership might have been frail at times but it had been wise, shrewd and always intelligent. Boromir… Boromir was cut from a different cloth and while he certainly was a warrior like none other, Imrahil could not help but wonder what Gondor might loose of itself under his pragmatic leadership.

 

TRB

 

Boromir stood in the dark dungeon under the tower, Faramir and Kíli beside him. None of them looked towards the corpse that was still resting against the cold stone wall and Boromir was glad to know his brother and friend so close, their very presence was comforting, calming, there was an odd sense of being complete with both of them close and in this night, the night of such a loss he was all the more grateful for it. Together they walked up the stairs to the citadel yard and Boromir called for the guards to carry Denethor’s body to Rath Dínen, where he should rest with those of his line that had gone before him.

 

“He spent a lot of time in this tower,” Faramir said, when the guards departed, the torches they carried with the bier the last thing visible in the dark of the yard. “if there is any reason for his deeds… any answer as to why he would commit such acts of cruelty… it must be hidden inside these very walls. But I do not wish to ask.”

 

“We have to, brother.” Boromir replied, his hand still on Faramir’s shoulder. “If we do not find out what drove him mad, we are in danger still. I…a part of me wishes there were a rational answer for his actions.”

 

“Sometimes the most irrational things people do, seem very sensible and rational to them,” Kíli said, his deep voice gentle, softening the harsh truth he spoke.

 

Boromir recalled what he knew of Kíli’s Uncle, of the curse that had driven the great dwarven King mad with gold, if there was a dark power at work here as well, they had to find out, more than ever. “Would you come with us, Kíli?” he asked. “You have seen more of such vile enchantments than any other… and I’d feel better knowing you with us.”

 

The dwarven warrior lightly touched his arm. “Then I will come with you,” he said firmly, a note of protectiveness in his voice.

 

Again they entered the tower, mounting the long flight of stairs that led towards the topmost room of the tower of Kings. The nightly room was alight only with the silver shine of the moon, painting a cold pale light on the floor, making the arched window pillars cast long shadows across the white stone floor. The long shadows of the pillars and walls gave Faramir the strange feeling that he could see his father stand in the shadows of this very room.

 

On the table in the middle of the room they found a softly glowing orb sitting, bright light shining from the Stone. The light of the moon glistened on the cold surface but it did not spark the soft shine that emanated from the deeps of the stone. “What is this?” Boromir asked in a hush.

 

“A Palantír, a far-seeing stone,” Faramir said reverently. “It is said that the Kings of old had several in their possession, bringing them back from Numenór whence it sank. Those stones were supposed to be artifacts of an Elder Age.”

 

“Said to be made by Feanor himself,” Kíli added. He had heard the legends of these stones along with the other great legends of the Elven smiths. “Their power was feared and revered.”

 

“Should Denethor”—Faramir could not bring himself to say ‘Father’—“have tried to use this Stone? The gift of far sight is terrible enough without wishing for more of it.”

 

“Not far sight,” Boromir replied grimly. “Jealousy. In his search for the power of the ancient kings… in his wish to prove himself as superior as they were, he tried his hand at something too terrible and too great.” He closed his eyes; a part of him understood well the temptation, the wish for power and the willful defiance of wisdom. Ever since Boromir had seen himself in the visions of the Ring, he knew he too bore the same weakness, the same pride. And while he hated his father for raising his hand against Faramir, while he was unable to mourn Denethor’s passing, he understood how the old Man had come to this place; how pride and despair, and anger at one Man – Thorongil – had driven him there. It was a bitter thing to be considered second as a matter of course to some stranger, to a Man who had hardly cared for Gondor’s struggles but who would be seen as superior to them without question. But while Boromir understood these feelings, he had conquered them in Amon Hen, when he had chosen to save the King’s life.

 

“We must let him go, Fari,” Boromir said softly. “We need to let him pass. I shall never forget his end, but I will not be ruled by it. He chose to take this road… and I will not walk beside his shadow.” Straightening up, Boromir turned to his brother, finding an astonished and proud expression on Faramir’s face. “We’ll go from here together, Brother.”

 

Faramir reached for Boromir’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort, silently confirming that they’d stand together. Often had he seen the terrible pride of their father in his brother, and often he had stood by, seeing that haughty pride carry them to heights or crush them, always a lure, always a danger, it had spurred some of Boromir’s most daring heroics… and some of his gravest mistakes in this very city. Faramir loved his brother fiercely; with all that he was, including the pride, the flaws and he still had feared what that pride would do to Boromir’s soul, which it would eat away the good honorable soul his brother possessed. Now that he stood here, beside his brother he could hardly believe it. In the past Boromir would not have found that calm clarity, that acceptance, the sheer strength to conquer what vain pride and haughty will might dictate, he saw a wisdom in his warrior brother he had never seen there before. Faramir lowered his chin, closing his eyes, his heart was suddenly so much lighter, whatever may lay ahead,  they were free of Denethor’s shadow.

 

Kíli had retreated to the door, leaning against the stone frame and watched them, his heart glad that they both had passed through this darkness; both brothers lived, as it should be. He silently watched as they stood with each other, finding strength and comfort in the other’s presence, like brothers should. He smiled, even with all the pains of this day, with the old horrors of the past dredged up… this made it worth it. The two brothers would go on together, stronger than before.

 

“What shall we do about the Stone?” Boromir asked his eyes going back to the table. The night was moving on and they had little time to see that things were set into a semblance of order.

 

Faramir looked around and found a silken kerchief, colored darkly blue nearly like the stone itself, laying orderly over the side of one of the chairs. It had been placed there neatly folded and he was sure that it must have been used to cover the Palantír. He took it, the soft silk unfurled in his hand, it vaguely reminded him of the silken stole his mother had used to wear so long ago. He shook it out to full size and gently spread it on the Stone. When his hand touched the cool orb, even though the sheer barrier of cloth he felt a tingle under his very fingertips, his eyes were drawn to the cool blue silk on the stone and he saw the silver light shine through the cloth. The room blurred, like sudden rain was forming a barrier between him and anything but the orb, even the blurred forms of his brother and Kíli began to spin, whirl away, the ground faded away and he fell… the world fell away..

 

_Faramir stood in a watery valley. Trees were moving about, his eyes widened and he blinked rapidly, but he still saw them. Huge trees slowly walking through the water and rubble… yes, there was rubble swimming in the water. Ents, a calmer part of his mind supplied, he had read about such creatures, but surely had never expected to see one. His eyes followed one huge walking elm tree that approached a wall. What wall? Faramir frowned and looked up to the skies, seeing the looming tower. Orthanc… This must be Orthanc. But how?_

_“You cannot leave him to his schemes, Gandalf.” The firm voice made Faramir spin around. Two men were standing at the water’_ _s edge, he approached them, walking on the swimming rubble of the water with sudden ease. They were only a few paces away, or had it been more and he had suddenly bridged the distance? One Mithrandir, the other a Man Faramir did not know but still instantly recognized. There was a pale light surrounding him, which left no doubt who he must be. Isildur_ _’_ _s heir, the King of Gondor. “Saruman is planning evil still and fear for all those his hate will devour,” the Man continued. “You are the only one who can confront him.”_

_Gandalf_ _’_ _s eyes became very serious. “If I do so, you will have to go on alone, Aragorn, and Mordor is unleashing all its might against the White City. Deprived of their Captain, ill-prepared and without hope, I fear for them. Th_ _é_ _oden will ride with all his Men, but it will n_ _o_ _t be enough to break the siege that will enclose Minas Tirith.”_

_Aragorn raised his chin. “You always spoke of the strength of Men, of the hope you were placing in us, old friend,” he spoke in a firm, yet slightly resigned tone like he had repeated this argument before and it had not been heard. “I too have doubted the strength of Men; felt there was none, neither in them or me… until the day a Man who had no love and little respect for me fought a fierce stand to save my life. The way he fought and the way he must have died were testament to all that the world of Men can be. I will not leave his people – my people – to their fate, but neither will I leave others to suffer from Saruman_ _’_ _s revenge.”_

_Faramir watched this exchange, his pulse racing, the very core of his being shaken. He did not know of whom the King spoke, who had been so brave to save him, to give his life to protect the Heir of Isildur, but he had given the world of Men hope again. All the tiredness Faramir had felt, even the soul-shaking sadness he had carried with him, having felt his father’s hand raised against him and all the doubts in his heart fell off him. He knew he’d take up the sword and fight to the very last, they would hold out against the Shadow, no matter how long, no matter what the Dark Lord might throw at them, there was Hope, Hope and Light had not left the world, they never would._

 

“Faramir!” The familiar voice of his brother seemed to echo from far away.

 

“He’s coming around, Boromir; his eyes are clearing,” another, deeper voice added.

 

Faramir blinked. He found himself sitting on the floor, his back against one of the stone chairs, the ornaments carved into the leg pressing into his back. His brother and Kíli were squatted down beside him. He rubbed his forehead, still dizzy from the experience. “The Stone… it showed me something.”

 

“It did? But you barely touched it.” Boromir looked at the table, where the silk covered the Palantír. That stone might have taken whatever strength and heart Denethor had left and now it was clawing into the next of Boromir’s family, he’d love to smash the horrid thing, maybe he would ask Kíli if it could be destroyed, the dwarf knew more of such artifacts than them combined.

 

“Yes. It showed me hope,” Faramir said. “Boromir… Isildur’s heir, the King, he is on the way here, with the army of the Rohirrim. If we hold out long enough…”

 

“So he made it out of Amon Hen,” Boromir closed his eyes, leaning his forhead against his own hand, his shoulders unclenching a little. When he looked up he smiled. “That is good news; and if he brings Rohan’s armies, even better. We will hold out until he arrives.”

 

Such words a month ago would have stained his mouth with bitterness, but today they were sweet, rich with determination. Thorongil was hope for Gondor, and Gondor was in dire need of hope, and maybe there was something left to the old spell of the Kings, to their ancient luck, Gondor could use some of that too. And whatever Boromir might think of Thorongil, whatever faults he placed at the other man’s feet, they were unimportant now. It did not matter if he liked of disliked Thorongil, or if Isildur’s heir might or might not wear the winged crown of Eärnur or not. Boromir was glad that the King would give Gondor that hope it was all that mattered.

 

“We should leave here.” Faramir rose from the seat. “’Tis an eerie place, and knowing our father dwelled in it makes it darker still.”

 

The three of them walked down the long flight of stairs and down into the courtyard. Night had fallen and an icy wind blew from the east, the smell of smoke and ash traced the chill gusts. When Kíli bade the brothers a good night, intending to go to the dwarven armory in the Undercity to find another weapon, Boromir held him back, while he was sure that Thoroniâr would have retracted any orders the guards might still have had regarding Kíli, he still preferred to make sure for himself that neither of them would attack or try to kill his friend. “Wait,” he said. His glance went between the three; his own sword broken at Amon Hen, Faramir’s shattered in Osgiliath, and Kíli’s Dragon sword broken by the spell that had saved them. From afar, from years back to the past, Boromir remembered something. “Take some torches and come with me.”

 

The part of the Citadel they now entered was equally as dusty as the Tower of Kings, only that the lower levels had been used for storage. “Where are we going?” Faramir asked, raising the torch to see better in the narrow spiral staircase they were climbing. He could not recall ever having been in this part of the Citadel, and he had loved exploring when he was younger.

 

“It is something Grandfather showed me the summer before he died,” Boromir explained while they walked. “I was only seven at the time.” He had not thought of all this in long years but somewhere deep in his heart he remembered the drowsy afternoon in the height of summer that his grandfather had taken him for a walk through the Citadel. “He showed me a chamber here in this tower and he said that one day, on a day so dark that it seemed hope itself had left this City, I should remember. When my family and closest friend would be without blades to defend, and wounded from terrible treachery.”

 

He stopped in front of a simple heavy door made from oaken beams and iron clamps. Dust had settled on the hinges and the rough stone ground before it. In long years no one had come up here. Boromir placed his torch into the stone sconce beside the door. “I can’t think of a darker day than this,” he said, “and… all he said came terribly true.” He still fondly remembered his grandfather, and maybe Ecthelion had truly foreseen this hour.

 

The door seemingly had no lock apparently, nor a handle of any kind. Boromir carefully traced his hands over the rough wood, feeling splinters and small nicks in the planks until he found two small metal bulges, like nails not properly hammered into the wood. He pressed one down, while pulling at the other. The ancient mechanism still worked and the hinges holding the door from the inside unlocked, he pushed it wide open; the hinges creaked loudly, rust raining in small flakes, leaving russet traces on the dark grey stone floor.

 

The chamber behind was a typical small tower room, built into the side of the wall, the room was semicircular, thick walls and a heavy ceiling enclosing a surprisingly large space, with two  slid-like windows opposite of the door. Kíli and Faramir placed their torches into the sconces inside, their light falling on a single, simple table standing in the middle of the room. It was an ancient table, probably discarded from some fancier room and relegated here to storage. On it rested three swords, three different blades glittering in the flickering torchlight. The middle one was longest: a heavy sword for a strong fighter, the steel blade darkened to almost black, only the silver runes in it reflecting the light. To the right lay a lighter, one-handed sword, a typical Ranger blade, shining in bright silver. The blade to the left was more fanciful in form, straight backed with a long curved edge´, the only of the three to be single edged, and the elegant curve of the edge slightly reminiscent of a wing. The steel had been matted to a dark grey, and the engraving gave the blade a faint reminiscence of a wing. He did not know how Ecthelion could have known that they would stand here one day, or how long these swords had been resting here. Even back then, when Boromir had been a child, the room had been dusty. But now that they stood here, there was little doubt for whom each blade was meant.

 

Carefully, Boromir took up the black sword; it fit his hand as if it had been made for him. He whirled it around his hand, to test out the blade’s balance. It was perfect. There was little doubt a true master had made it. Holding it closer to the torch, Boromir could see the runes glittering silver on the blade, but he was unable to decipher them. It was not the familiar fluent form of Tengwar letters nor the intertwining forms of Adûnaic writing, these were runes, he had seen such writings, fading on the walls in Dwarrowdelf. “Is this Dwarven writing?” he asked, turning the blade so Kíli could see the runes.

 

The Dwarven warrior’s eyes quickly traced the writing. “It is,” he confirmed. “Those are Khuzdul runes.”

 

“What do they say?” Boromir’s eyes traced all three blades, seeing similar engravings shining on all three of them.

Kíli read them again, searching for words to express what stood written there. “Till hope dies and life is gone, till dawn fails and light burns out, on the last day to carry hope into the Eye of the Shadow.”

 

The words touched Boromir deeply; he could not tell how a blacksmith from decades, maybe centuries ago, had known to engrave these words on the sword, or why his grandfather had chosen to hide those swords here, but they fit. Dear Light, they fit – they were the blessing and the vow he would carry into the battles to come. “What does yours say, Faramir?” he asked, knowing his brother might even riddle out the inscription on his own.

 

“It seems to be written in verse,” Faramir said, still focused on the runes. “at least that’s what the arrangement of runes would indicate, of the old books are correct. But beyond that I doubt that there is any hope for a scholar among Men to be able to read more than the most basic Khuzdul.”

 

Faramir showed the blade to Kíli, who shook his head. “It is an old Dwarven dialect from Moria,” he explained. “Even among Dwarves it is rarely spoken. It uses runes not in the sense of letters, but of entire words and meanings packed into one rune. Writing verses and riddles in these was a tradition among the artisans of Moria.”

 

Kíli traced his fingers over the runes, like he wanted to feel them as he sought to convey the intricate meaning into Westron words.

 

The smith that made me

called upon Mahal

fanning the flame

of the forge's fire.

 

The smith that made me

made me to save my man

from any face of death.

I obey no greed,

No rank, not for reward,

But for loyalty.

 

The strength I carry

will be a beacon

to all who would follow

and a burning brand

to the enemy.

 

And I shall break

upon the hand

which is not faithful.

 

Kíli spoke slowly, sometimes hesitating, searching for the right words to express all that the blacksmith had put into them.

 

Gently, Faramir traced the runes on the blade with his index finger. Loyalty, faith… It was a good blessing on the blade and a good demand on it also. Looking at it closer, he found the mark of the blacksmith on the guard of the sword, the small sign barely noticeable but it was there. It was one he had seen before. “Strange,” Faramir frowned and looked closer at the minuscule sign before looking up to his brother. “Grandfather must have had these made when he was young – it is the same blacksmith’s mark on this one as was on your old sword, Brother.”

 

Turning the black blade, Boromir checked his, finding the familiar mark as well. He saw that Kíli must have found it too, the Dwarf tracing it gently with his calloused hand, and Boromir remembered something Kíli had said the very night they had met. “You said that my sword had been made by one of your kin,” he said. “So were these… weren’t they?”

 

“Yes.” Kíli looked up at him. “They were made by the same man. His name was Thorin – Thorin Oakenshield.” He had known Thorin had worked in the villages and cities of Men; he had come with him through Gondor himself when he had been young. They had travelled the length and breadth of Middle Earth together, as long as they had each other nothing had been able to faze them. His hand curled around the hilt of the sword that lay in his palm like it had been shaped for him. Thorin had made this blade… made it so long before the night came, before they had even dared to dream of returning home.

 

His hands shook and he hastily put the blade back on the table, his throat tightened when the memory of Thorin working in their makeshift forge outside of Osgiliath became stronger even. Covering his mouth with one hand Kíli tried to stifle a sob that threatened to rise in his throat… he was no young dwarfling anymore, he would not cry like a child! With his free hand he reached for the stone wall, trying to steady himself, the cool stone providing a measure of calm, the steadiness of the very bones of the earth. Stone endured, it did not break or fade, it lasted through it all, fire and rain, pain and blows, be like stone and a dwarf would be indestructible.

 

Boromir had put the sword away when he saw Kíli nearly collapse on himself, the dwarf was in his own way a powerful figure, strength and confidence easily overshadowing the shorter stature of his kind, but in this moment it melted away, as pain bowed Kíli’s shoulders and he struggled to not break down. Thorin… it had been a stupid question to ask. Boromir of all people knew how cruelly Kíli’s family had been ripped from him, what kind of fate his people had lived through. He closed the distance with Kíli and grasped his strong shoulders, it was the closest thing to a hug possible without their height difference becoming awkward. “Kíli,”

 

The single word startled the dwarf from his pain, his face stilled; becoming a painfully controlled mask, a low, hoarse breath and then Kíli looked up, his dark eyes shining with pain. “I am sorry… I shouldn’t have…”

 

“No,” Boromir could see how his friend again tried to lock away the pain. Had he ever allowed himself to mourn? To give in to the pain? Boromir vividly recalled how long the death of his own mother had haunted him. “after all what happened… finding these swords here must feel like a cruel joke of fate.” He saw Faramir closing in with them, his brother was the more empathic of them, he probably read much more in Kíli’s demeanour than Boromir could.

 

“Thorin… he must have made them during the time we came through Gondor together – after Celanost was build.” Kíli’s voice was hoarse. “I… I should be glad so much of him remains, his works endure even when he left this world.”

 

“But you wish he were here,” Faramir observed gently, he recalled Kíli’s reaction to the drawing in the book the other night. How much of a curse a long lifespan proved to be, he wondered, but for the war Kíli might well live another century and facing that with the burdens he already carried could not be easy.

 

“If he were here, he’d tell me to stop whining, Durin’s blood does not cry like common tavern wenches.” Kíli found his voice again, recalling Thorin’s grumble was less painful. He had not felt the pain so keenly in a while but also the will to not break, to wanting to go on. He could lock it away and go on, dismiss it as a moment of weakness, but the presence of the brothers changed him. Their presence was comforting, giving him strength, for one time he wanted to not just lock away the burden. “When Thorin died… when Fíli died… I thought a part of me had died too. I wished I was dead and buried with them, I wished to go to sleep and never wake. Only months later I understood how selfish that was… their friends mourned them as much as I did, Mister Dwalin… he was devastated by the loss, I couldn’t just shrink from my duty. I had a duty to them, to my friends… to my people.”

 

He looked up at them, dark eyes meeting green, the brothers knew about duty, about living for a duty that would never end. They had shouldered the burden of the war against Mordor since their youth. “And so I did – going on, fighting on, trying to do right by my people. The decades passed… and I could still feel them, like their shadows were near me, invisible but there, unreachable.” He reached up, returning the gesture towards Boromir, his hands resting on the muscular arms. “Not any more, I know they will wait until my time comes, I will see them again but not today. I want to live – not necessarily to survive this war – but to live long enough to give the Shadow hell. You taught me that.”

 

Size difference or none, this time Boromir did hug Kíli, much like he would if it was Fari. He felt Faramir’s arms closing around them and there was a strange calm in their presence, together they were strong, there was nothing they could not face.

 

It took them a while to calm enough to go back and gather up the blades on the table. Boromir watched as Kíli took the oddly shaped blade again, shape, size, hilt… it was like perfectly made for him. “What does your blade say?” he asked, wondering what the rune band on the blade might mean.

 

Kíli turned the blade so they could see the writing embedded in the engraving. “Guide me, Raven’s Wing, I shall follow you home.”

 

It seemed humble a blessing beside the other two, but Boromir understood. For the House of the man who had made those swords, for the man who now wielded it, home was not the Ered Luin, nor even the fabled Erebor, but Moria. Dwarrowdelf. The blessing on this sword spoke of returning the dwarves to the fabled Dwarven Kingdom of old, of returning to the Kingdom that they once had come from, of leading them home.

 

He saw Kíli look down on his hand where the black wings of the raven marked both his palms and then back to the words written on the blade. What destiny, what hope… and what legacy had been handed down with this blade?

 

TRB

 

Early dawn found the three warriors standing side by side atop the lower City Gate. During the night, the Orc armies had all but encircled the City, thousands… tens of thousands of Orcs were amassing on the fields outside and legions of Haradrim and Easterlings were pouring in behind them. The Pelennor was black with enemy hordes and soon the storm would begin. They did not speak. They did not need to. They would hold out as long as was necessary.

 


	19. Through the edge of night

** Chapter 18: Through the edge of night **

****

The fiery catapult load smashed into the roof of the building, raining tiles and burning beams down on the retreating fighters, the flames licked up the once white walls now stained with sooth and ash. Between the flickering flames Thoroniâr saw shadows moving, low, bowlegged figures moving between the fires with the damnable ease of creatures that lived with pain and preferred death in battle to the torment of an Orc-life. In spite of the flames he advanced, blocking their access to the yard behind the building. Their blades clashed, steel shrieking under the duress of powerful thrusts. The heat of the blaze drove sweat on Thoroniâr’s face and made the steel sword in his hand burn with an angry heat. But Thoroniâr did not give ground, five Orcs lay dead at his feet, and he fought the sixths and seventh as furiously, he could not give in, none of them could. . Like never before the tides of war were drowning Minas Tirith, and the enemy had unleashed myriads of Orcs and beasts against the mightiest fortress of men. The people of Minas Tirith had long known this day would come, her warriors had known and they had been prepared best that they could. Boromir had insisted on Thoroniâr being the next Alaris of the Tower Guard so he’d prepare this city for war, now that the bloody tide had been loosened upon them, Thoroniâr began to doubt that anyone could have prepared them for the horrors that awaited the city. The storm had begun by first light, the enemy commander opening the field with a move all too well known to the Sons of Gondor: by sending wave after wave of Orcs against the walls. Catapults were used to throw fire and stones into the city, and they were used to terrible effect.

 

A rumbling creak above him warned Thoroniâr and he jumped backwards, into the doorway of the burning house. The main beams of the house gave in, crashing down in flames on the Orcs, stone tiles and heavy stone beams followed, burying at least a dozen grey skinned soldiers of Mordor. But it was only a drop in the ocean, a little gust in the ceaseless storm of the Orcs against the walls of the White City. What they lacked in skill they made up with sheer numbers, simply intending to wear down the defenders until exhaustion would break them.

 

Thoroniâr had known this would happen, it was a foreseeable strategy and Boromir had expected that this would be the Enemy’s opening move in the fight for the White City. Four times during the first three days of the siege, it had been his strategies that had forced the enemy to break off the attack and bought the defenders precious time to recover. Each time the risk had been more daring, especially the new destruction of several catapults during a night foray into the enemy ranks.

 

Reatreating into the yard, Thoroniâr saw the last walls of the house collapse, the flames flaring brightly, their biting smoke something that had stopped to have a special smell for him, there had been smoke everywhere in the last day. A quick look through the yard told him that here were not more than thirty fighters left of first company. “Vargón, take half our men, secure lamp-maker alley,” he told the soldier that now was his second on the group. “the rest is with me, we need to hold the postern.”

 

They had a raid outside the walls, and if the postern fell before their fighters could return, their way into the city would be barred. Those raids were going to be Thoroniâr’s death long before the Orcs got him.Boromir still led every foray they had sent out; he always was there where the fighting was worst, the most dangerous enemies awaited. He did trust Veryan and Thoroniâr to keep the other parts of the fight under control while he was out. And to this day his tactics had worked, though they became increasingly more desperate with each day that passed. Still… Thoroniâr knew that without Boromir the city would already be lost. Back to back with his brother Faramir and his dwarven friend, he had become a beacon of hope, an example that kept the defenders from despairing.

 

Another dawn was upon them and the yard was littered with bodies of Orcs and Men when another catapult stone hit the yard, smashing the pillars of the halls to the left of the open space. Stone splinters rained down on the fighters that were pushing the Orcs back beyond the ruins. Thoroniâr’s sword had shattered on an Orc helmet and he fought with the blade of a dead comrade in hand. Stabbing another Orc he saw with a grim satisfaction that they had managed to to destroy those Orcs that had made it across the wall – yet.

 

“Thoroniâr, gap in the wall!” Ceris called for him, a signal all the surviving fighters in the yard heard and pulled back to the wall. The postern was opening, it was a small stone door in the bastion that allowed fighters in and out, but opening it meant always the risk of Orcs flooding in with the retreating troops.

 

Once the postern was fully open, Thoroniâr and two more fighters adavanced through, to cover their comrades as they came back. Like always he could at once see a now-familiar trio – Boromir, his sword eating through the flood of Orcs like a how through the hay, Faramir, swift, agile and deadly, and Kíli, small but seemingly indestructible. They were the last of the group holding the Orcs off their comrades.

 

Thoroniâr killed several Orcs that tried to reach the postern while the retreating soldiers made it inside. The last few were through, and they pulled back as well. When the stone door slammed close behind them, he let out a sharp breath.

 

“How are doing?” Boromir asked the same moment. The Captain of Gondor was marked by the scorches of flame, ash staining his light hair and his armor had more dents than a good armorer could hammer out in a week, but he still managed to ask the question in a voice full of resolve.

 

“Badly,” Thoroniâr reported. “their catapults smashed the main gate two hours past noon, Veryan has the Orcs bottled up between Market Row and Stone Mason’s Yards, but the barricades can’t hold past the night. The second breach is still bottled up because we collapsed the Trader’s Embassy into the only street leading out of that quarter.”

 

There was an eerie calm in Boromir’s eyes when he heard the bad news. “Prepare the men to retreat to the second wall, Thoron,” he ordered swiftly. “Veryan and his men first, you and yours after and Dwalin’s last– I want all of our soldiers out of the first ring by dawn. The barrels are prepared?”

 

That part of the plan was not one Thoroniâr liked, but it was not his place to question. “Aye, but if they realize what we are up to, we will never make it.” He understood why it would be Dwalin to go last, if the enemy knew Veryan and Thoroniâr himself, Dwalin came as the bad surprise they did not anticipate and the dwarven war-master fought with the skill and determination of a warrior many decades their senior.

 

Boromir fixed him a hard stare. “We capitulate after we are dead, Thoroniâr, not before.” He said, his voice a touch harder than before. “And I will give them another worry to think about.”

 

With the Alaris turning to his task, Boromir joined Kíli and Faramir, along with the other ‘raiders’ who had aided the defenders inside the next yard with another Orc wave. “Change of plans?” Kíli asked him, not stopping to fight even for a moment, kicking an Orc down the broken side of a house.

 

“We need to pay the enemy another visit,” Boromir beheaded an Orc, stabbing the next, Faramir taking out the one that had come too close to his left. Under any other circumstances it would have been unsettling how much the three of them could anticipate the other’s actions and reactions, often knowing where they would move in the split of a second before it happened. It allowed them to fight like one man.

 

“More catapult burning?” Kíli ducked, ramming the blade into an Orc belly, while Boromir behaded one right above.

 

“No, but I want them to believe that and have their troops protect their precious fire-ballistas. We will be hunting much bigger game tonight.”

 

Boromir saw Kíli’s grin, it looked like a mask of demon, because of the blood that was smeared across Kíli’s face. “Dictate the rhythm of a battle, break the rhythm, break the enemy – I like it.”

 

 TRB

 

A chill eastern wind had set in when the ‘raiders’ made their way through one of the minor breaches in the wall and into the enemy ring. Boromir frowned, after days in the stench of smoke and corpses it was almost strange to smell the cold, slightly wet air the wind carried. A shriek rose above the wind when the Orcs discovered them, Faramir’s arrows killing the first few of them, Kíli hacking down the next of the group. One of their smaller scouts running away, usually Boromir would have stopped him, keeping their presence covered as long as possible had been imperative on all their raids so far, but this time was different. This time they wanted the enemy to spot them, to know another raid was under way.

 

Killing the next group of orcs that was moving from the main eastern encampment towards the southern siege towers, they gained some room to breathe. Swiftly they jumped into one of the trenches that had once served to drain water from Pelennor fields. The deep murky trenches had been their best friend during their nightly forays so far.

 

Boromir followed the swift moving figure of his brother who guided them through the dark, sometimes he wondered how Faramir could even see in nights like these. At least none of them was too tired, or maybe he was just telling himself what he needed to keep fighting. Somehow Boromir had felt less tired, less exhausted in the last days than he should have been. Like the sheer presence of his brothers gave him all the strength he needed.

 

Blaring horns rang out west of them, and they heard dark southern voices bark orders at the Orcs. Boromir understood parts of what was said, the Enemy was moving troops to protect the catapults, slowing the immediate storm on the walls. They were not in the mood to lose any more of their war machines with no resources to rebuild them quickly.

 

“They are taking the bait,” Faramir whispered, while they slipped out of the trench behind what had once been the barn of a prosperous farm on Pelennor fields. Now it was nothing more but a landmark close to the enemy’s command hill. They had to move carefully, the barn was used by the Easterlings as a Guardpost. Boromir could see two guards standing in the dark, talking to each other. They were relaxed, not really expecting trouble. Their voices were unusually melodic for Easterners, and their dialect… he sighed when their slender, light weight figures and light voices fell into place and told him what they were. Men of Dorvinion – the land so famed for it’s wine had long tethered on the brink between light and dark, before being annexed by the Eastern Empire a century ago. Its people certainly not the kind of hardened Shadow-fighters the Easterlings and Haradrim were. Still… they were the Enemy now. He drew his dagger and snuck up on one of them, while Kíli took on the other. The same moment Boromir’s blade sank into the neck of the soldier, Kíli had killed the other.

 

“Pull another legion back to protect the towers, if they have not sprung up in one of the sectors they will soon,” Boromir tensed when he heard the voice approach from behind the barn. “they are up to something.” He knew the voice, the hard accent – he should have known Shakurán would be on the front rank of this advance. It also told him something – their hierarchy had to be chaos – with probably a Nazgul in overall command, Shakurán leading the dark troops and the King of Harad leading his people, there had to be tensions, things they could exploit later on.

 

He gestured Faramir to keep to cover, his brother would understand what kind of game they’d be playing now – the Game of Fire.

 

“You are right, Shakurán,” he said out loud advancing from the dark into the ring of light the fire created on the other side of the barn. “because Vipers are not killed by cutting off their feet – you need to cut off their head.”

 

Four startled Easterlings came about, all drawing theirs blades but a curt gesture of Shakurán stilled three of them. “Boromir – I should have known it was you messing with my legions,” he said with a grin.

 

“Your legions are a worse mess than usually,” Boromir advanced further, their blades touching at the tips but both warriors still standing unmoving. The three other Easterlings had made room but not left the command hill – they had no orders and thus were bound to watch. For once strict Easterling discipline worked to Gondor’s advantage. “That Siege Tower this morning… sloppy, you are getting soft on your Orcs Shakurán.”

 

They circled each other, their duel not yet one of force. “Harad commanders, useless altogether,” Shakurán broke their stalemate with a light attack, testing Boromir’s defences, swift strikes of his sword, easily parried by Boromir. “you probably could whip them in line within a month – something worth considering given the situation.”

 

Boromir blocked the last attack harder than necessary, he knew Shakurán meant the offer, the Easterling had tried to recruit him many years before. “What happened to never asking for my surrender?” he replied, forcing his opponent to retreat two steps through vicious attacks.

 

Shakurán ducked under the last attack, evading it entirely. “This might be your last chance, Boromir, this army is only the beginning – more are coming. You stand no chance this time, no matter what surprises you pull on me.”

 

The block turned out hard, Shakuran’s blade screeching along the black sword and hitting the guard, Boromir brought his blade around to break free. “Numbers and words, Shakurán – as long as one fighter stands to oppose the Shadow the Light is not lost.”

 

There was a flicker of genuine sadness in the Easterling’s eyes. “So be it then, it was an honor knowing you.” With these words he flung himself into an attack, faster and swifter than ever before, his blade a deathly whirlwind, each attack only the prelude to an even fiercer one.

 

Boromir stood his ground, forgoing all dance of speed and agility, no frills and fancies, just blocking the attacks as they rained down on him. None of them broke through; each was parried, blocked and misdirected. He kept Shakurán tied up, their fight not the true purpose of this foray but a means to an end.

 

Behind him Boromir heard a hiss and moments later the barn erupted into flame, along with several other buildings, everywhere around them guard-fires sprang to life, eating into grass, tents and buildings, the flames greedily reaching for all they could reach. Even the fire they were fighting close to licked up towards Shakuran’s cloak. Boromir grinned fiercely – Kíli! He must have done this and it worked perfectly. Seeing the core of their camp burn the Easterlings assumed a major attack on their camp and pulled back the Orcs.

 

Again their blades clashed, and Shakurán’s sword shattered under the black sword’s force. He flung the hilt aside and drew his dagger, but Boromir used a swift kick against Shakuráns side to make the man stumble too close to a fire, retreating into the dark. Chaos was erupting all around them and it was time to retreat as fast as they had come.

 

On the time when the first rays of dawn rose beyond the clouds darkening the sky, Boromir led what remained of his men to the second Ring, along with Dwalin and the dwarves. At his orders barrels with oil had been prepared in the lower ring, but with dwarven help they were hardly needed to set the entire first ring aflame, the white city of Gondor was burning, flames licking towards the darkening skies. The fires would buy them time, the Orcs would not be able to take possession of the first ring nor could they storm the second wall while the first still burned. It would buy the defenders precious time. Though Boromir knew clearly this was only the beginning.

 

TRB

 

It had not taken a bit more than a day for Boromir to learn how right he had been. The fight for the second wall was harder and more bloody than the battle for the first – the enemy now had to storm the much higher, steeper battlements but did so with even more ferocity. After two days of unsuccessfully running against the second wall, the enemy drew the Orcs back. Boromir had at once known that now came the true trial – the Haradrim and Easterling Elite was sent to do what the Orcs for all their numbers failed to do. And with the Easterlings came the winged beasts, deploying troops right on the wall, tossing casks of fire into the city. The Rangers and every archer the city could muster was fighting a constant battle to keep the beasts off the city, but at least a dozen were shot down above the walls with their deadly loads still in their claws, shattering buildings and killing civilians and soldiers alike. Each death one loss the city could ill afford, each death a loss that was bound to happen as the dark flood ate their way into the White City.

 

The main Haradrim advance had been accompanied by trolls and other creatures that were slow but deathly when close. For two more days they had been fighting a brutal and daring battle to hold out, but then the second wall was in a worse state than the first. They had not been able to gain a reprieve and Boromir had ordered the retreat to the Third wall while another storm of the Haradrim was mounting against their failing defenses. Their King Tamadhur III himself had led his Elite against the shattered Gate of the Morning.

 

Wounded and exhausted Boromir had confronted the Haradrim leader himself, their duel stalling the enemy advance slightly. Tamadhur III had been fresh, well rested and a decade older than Boromir, a fierce brave fighter who died after a bloody hour-long fight. The fall of their King left the Haradrim in just enough disarray for Gondor to retreat to the third wall. The third wall was the steepest of the city and shorter than the lower ones, which allowed for fewer defenders to cover more ground.

 

It was in the light of the new day that they saw the enemy armies receive reinforcements and for the first time in days they felt the familiar Shadow sweep over the city, as several winged wraiths circled high above. Leaning against the high battlements, Boromir looked up counting five of them. Five of those fell foes and most likely their leader was with them: the Witch-king of Angmar – the most fell of all the enemy’s commanders.

 

“It had to happen sooner or later.” Kíli too had watched the Wraiths flight over the city. “Eventually they always break their worst creatures out.”

 

Boromir was glad for the dwarf’s steadfast courage. “Tell me again that there is always hope,” he said grimly.

 

“Hope does not die,” Kíli said, eyes still out on the skies that had not seen a dawn in days. “Not as long as we fight, not as long as we remember that it takes only one candle to drive back the night.”

 

“Well said.” Faramir had returned from the upper armory with fresh arrows and a water-skin for them. “But we will need a bonfire to break this night.”

 

In that very moment the sound of a horn echoed from the sides of dark Mindolluin, a far-reaching, clear sound to rip through the darkness over the fields of Pelennor.

 

“Rohan.” Faramir’s eyes searched the heights that the Riders must appear soon. “They have come at last.” A smile shining on his exhausted features, his eyes shining with new hope.

 

Boromir looked the other way, down to the field where the enemy was regrouping. “And they will be smashed by the core of their army!” he said grimly, seeing the Easterlings were already having the Orc legions form a shield wall. “Without us their charge is going to fail.”

 

“What do we need to do?” Faramir asked, knowing the way Boromir looked past them, not seeing either them nor the walls at this moment, his mind was racing over the field, thinking of strategies they might employ. It was so like Boromir to see the situation at once and to act on it while hopes or despair still distracted every other man.

 

“Trap them between hammer and anvil,” Boromir told him. “Have all horses and riders ready here fast, all that can ride within the quarter of the hour. We will crush them between two fronts.” It was a daring thing to do and would seriously expose the city. Not to mention that they would have to force their path down the old causeway.

 

Leaving Faramir to take care of the riders, Boromir strode to the next bastion along the wall. “Dwalin, gather all your dwarves and assemble them at the gate; we will need your help to force our way through the causeway. After that… you need to hold the gate for us. This will expose the entire city.”

 

The old war-master leaned on his hammer, his grim nod indicating he understood what role his troops had been assigned. “Maybe we should drive them out of the city while we are at it; force their attention on several problems. They don’t have many competent commanders in the field,” he suggested, a wild gleam in his eyes.

 

It was a daring move and a desperate one, too, but if it drew some forces from the main battle, it could work. During the battle Boromir had often seen how Dwalin could predict the enemy, how the Easterling leaders would react – and he came up with great strategies to counter them, two things Boromir valued. “That will be for you and Thoroniâr to do,” Boromir decided swiftly. This would make or break the fate of this city, but Rohan’s arrival was all they could hope for. This was the day that would decide the fate of all Gondor.

 

The riders were assembling behind the gate. Boromir gestured Faramir, Kíli and Veryan to the head with him. It would take their strength and will to see this through, to lead the men right under the wings of the Shadow. It seemed so long ago that he had chastised Kíli for charging at a Nazgul at Amon Sûl. Now they would need every bit of that courage.

 

High on the outer hills of the Pelennor, the army of Rohan appeared, six thousand riders. The entire army of the Rohirrim had arrived, their number greater than Gondor would have dared to hope. Down the hill they charged, at the very heart of the enemy forces, no fear of dark or doom holding them back, and with them came the morning.

 

TRB

****

From two sides, the final attack on the shield wall had begun, trapping the Witch-king’s very army in between two equally strong and determined forces, yet the battle had only just begun. This army, led by the Lord of the Nazgul himself, stood where lesser armies would have fled and a cruel battle soon raged on the fields. The Witch King deployed the Easterlings led by the fiercest field commander against the Gondorian troops while he himself turned against the Rohirrim. It was the worst, darkest battle the world of Men had faced since the last Alliance had defeated Sauron an Age ago. The Witch King killed King Theoden of Rohan, along with many of his men, but then he was confronted by the one person he had not expected on this field – Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan.

 

His fall was to be felt across the entire field, even for those who had not witnessed the brave battle Eowyn of Rohan fought against him. Boromir felt the dread, the fear that had ridden on the Nazgul’s wings wash away, the Shadow broke apart and a ray of light fell from the clouds above them. There was still hope – the soldiers around him cheered, even as they fought. But their cheers died quickly when they saw the enemy forces regroup.

 

Shakurán felt a fierce pain rip through him as the Witch King shrieked his soul into the emptiness of the cold spring day. The sun had broken through the clouds, the light clear and cool on the blood fields. On any other day, in any other battle, the fall of such a Nazgûl Lord would have been enough to bring immediate retreat for Mordor’s armies and for a moment he expected Khamûl’s order to pull back but instead – the other Nazgûl fled, shrieking high in the air, leaving the field entirely, leaving further decisions in his hands. He was the highest ranking leader still deployed, with the Prince of Harad the next in the line of command.

 

One glance was enough for Shakurán to assess the field – the Gondorians had fought well, more than that, worthy of song and legend but even with their Rohirric brethren they were at the end. Tired, exhausted and outnumbered. And Shakurán was not yet at the end of his wits or resources. He swiftly ordered the smashed center to break up into two separate attack wings, one flanking the Rohirrim, one attacking the Gondorian fighters.  The veiled sorcerer conveying his orders swiftly. “Tarkhan!” He turned to the Prince of Harad, now his right hand commander, “I will need all your reserves, , especially the Mumakil,  let us  smash the armies of the West on the very walls of their beloved city.”

 

The young Haradrim saluted him, both fists crossed on his chest. “It will be done, Shakurán, I have a father to avenge.”

 

Watching him leave Shakurán shook his head. “You have a father to follow, boy.” He whispered, knowing that youth was no match for Boromir of Gondor.

 

Boromir saw what the enemy was doing and he knew that Shakurán again held command of the field, he knew the style, the hand all too well. If he let him complete this strategy they’d be lost, for Shakurán still had superior numbers and resources on his side.

 

He had the center of his troops on a hill only four hundred paces from the city walls on a hill named Wildgrass Howe, where the Easterling troops were rallying. Boromir raised his blade to signal his troops, once more rallying all remaining fighters behind him. He did not know how long they could hold out, how they were still standing, or even able to fight and function in the midst of this madness, but the only rest they’d find would be in death – and the battle was a long from over.

 

Their charge at the Easterlings was a mad, desperate attack, a fight like none ever before. They had to storm uphill, into the not yet closed Easterling ranks, the regrouping troops trying to to prevent Boromir’s fighters from breaking through their formation, but there was no relenting, no stopping in their charge. Boromir fought at the very front of the attack force, he, Kíli and Faramir the leaders of a fight that blurred into a whirlwind of stabs, jabs and blocks, corpses tumbling, blood and more blood smearing the grounds they pushed forward on. He did not know where the strength came from, but they broke one formation after the next, each stroke, each attack in perfect coordination, creating the gap for their fighters.

 

They pushed through a faltering rank of foes and suddenly Boromir saw him – Shakurán, giving orders to one of their veiled sorcerers. Faramir threw a dagger to kill the sorcerer while Boromir advanced against Shakurán, this fight – the fight of the battle leaders would be between them and them alone.

 

Boromir went into the fight differently than into any of the former clashes, no careful testing of defences, no playing about with words, he attacked directly and forcefully. Tired though he was, bleeding though he was from several wounds, he did not stop, nor slow down. His attack was swift and fierce – and it was met in kind. For Shakurán was not yet exhausted and he had prepared for this moment as well.

 

He was just one fighter but he gave Boromir more trouble than a dozen of his brethren at once. Boromir had always known Shakurán was good, but now that Easterling was driven to fight with all desperation, with all fierce will, holding nothing back, he was surppassing himself. At times he seemed to be able to foretell any attack and every parry, each of his own attacks came very well planed, all too often making use of one of Boromir's weaknesses, which he knew from too many years of respectful enmity.

 

Boromir fought as concentrated as possible, not falling for Shakurán's tricks and games, forcing him to fight on the closed space of the Howe. But for a long time, he could not see any weakness in his opponent, for Shakurán guarded too well against all weaknesses he had shown in the past. Boromir did not recognise how time went as their blades clashed, pieces of armor shattered and they got back to their feet to fight, again and again. The very epythome of the entire war, frozen into two single fighters, battling it out to what would most likely be mutual anhiliation. He did not hear the shocked call of Faramir when he nearly stumbled and fell under an attack of the Easterling, nor the encouraging shout of Kíli, when he had nearly broken through Shakurán's cover and broke the armor under the armpit. He nearly forgot they were present, he nearly forgot that there was anything else but this one fight.

 

Again he parried an attack. Shakurán became more aggressive by now, quickening the speed of their fight. “Force your rhythm on your opponent, then break the rhythm and break the opponent along that way.” A well known voice whispered in a distant corner of his mind, he smiled, seeing that Shakurán was exactly trying to do this and he was not going to let it happen.

 

His smile had confused the Easterling already, for this was not a day to smile at all. Boromir suddenly leapt forward in attack, Shakurán's parry came not as easily as before, but at the next strike he had already recovered and parried with the usual grace. His next attack came, Boromir evaded it with a fast turn to the side, the blade sliced his chainmail in his upper left arm and left a trace there, nothing serious. He retreated one step, blocking the next attack of his opponent. For moments their blades were blocking each other with an horrific pressure. Boromir felt his armmuscles clench under this pressure and understood what his opponent now was up to. He tried to break the black blade, or his own!

 

Boromir let his muscles relax, allowing the blade to be thrust to the side, diving down fast and attacking from below. He ran into a good parry. “This won’t work.” Shakurán commented in his calm voice. His next attack made Boromir stumble and fall, he managed to roll to the side and jump on his feet again, before Shakurán could make use of it. The pale blade missed him barely.

 

Boromir parried to other attacks without attacking again, going all defensive for the moment. This fight he was not going to win with any of his usual tactics. He parried the next hailstorm of attacks, giving up some space, by retreating some steps. When an especially hard hit ripped apart his cover, Boromir swung the black blade in a surprise move against Shakurán's sword hand. He gave all strength to this blow. The Easterling's fast reaction made him miss Shakurán's sword hand, but hitting the blade full force. Perhaps it was Shakurán had not expected this, perhaps the strength of the blow was too much, but the blade flew from the Easterling's hand, landing between the corpses of dead soldiers twenty paces away, falling outside of the ghosts reach. His opponent had not run from him, even when disarmed.

 

Shakurán picked up another blade, but where Boromir had been honorable, letting him recover a weapon or even catch himself in the past, this time he did not. The time for games, for duels was over, this was for the fate of the White City herself, and she would not fall because her Captain was too squeamish to land the death blow on a foe, no matter how much respected. The black sword sank into Shakurán's chest before the Easterling reached the new weapon, his body tumbling to the ground. There were no last words, not even a last barb, he died swiftly and silently as so many soldiers had this day.

 

A howl went through the ranks of the enemy host. The Rohirrim had charged the Mumakil, cutting their way through them; Shakurán had fallen, the Easterling host was in disarray… and still the Orcs rallied again, under the command of yet another Haradrim leader and came against Boromir’s men like a black flood. Exhausted, Boromir tried to close the ranks of his faltering army, it seemly strangely ironic that he’d die on the same hill where he had felled Shakurán, or maybe it was fitting after all. They had fought the hardest battle of their lives, they had managed to destroy the enemy leaders and still… it was not enough – the black flood kept coming and there was not enough strength left to stem it. Grimly, Boromir closed ranks with his troop at a burning hilltop before the city. His brother by his side, his friends with him… if this was the way to go, so be it.

 

And then the ships came. Out of the dusk they sailed like ghostly forms on the far river. Whence they had come no one would dare to guess, but their forms rose like wings from the mists. The Orcs screamed for it was an army, a ghostly, pale army that poured forward from the ships, cutting through the hosts of Orcs like a scythe through the grass. And between the mist and smoke, the armies of Gondor saw a banner rise – the banner of the King.

 

TRB

 

Relief flooded through Aragorn like a warm spring would flood through a frozen creek when he finally released the traitors from their obligation. The weight lifting off his heart that moment was like letting a tone of stone and steel topple to the ground after upholding them for too long. Calling upon the Oathbreakers had been a decision he had not wished to make, much as his choices had been limited. Still, he felt better knowing them gone and at rest. Surveying the battlefield, there was as much relief as pain there to see it. Theoden King had fallen and the Rohirrim army had faced severe losses on the field. And Minas Tirith… the white city had held out better and longer than Aragorn had dared to hope. When Eomer had first said that the scouts had seen Mundburg aflame, Aragorn had feared he would be too late to save the city.

 

Now that he stood here, on the fields before the city, seeing the scorched lower walls and the battle field before the ramparts he could only admire the fierce determination and iron will the soldiers of Gondor – all the sons of Gondor – had shown in defending their home. Boromir would have been proud to see them. The name of their fallen comrade cast a shadow on Aragorn’s soul. When they had lost Boromir in Amon Hen, he had hoped against all hope that he may have been captured along with the Halflings, but neither Merry nor Pippin had seen the faintest trace of the valiant Captain. Whatever his fate had been, his last stand had saved Aragorn’s life. And now that Aragorn saw this battlefield, he began to understand that Boromir had been a prime example of his people, of what Gondor’s soldiers were.

 

With Legolas and Gimli at his sides, Aragorn made his way towards where the Gondorian army had smashed the Easterling’s center on the foothills. Search for injured and recovering of the dead was already underway, men of Gondor and Rohan searching the fields together, calling for healers here and there. Up on the foothill, several men, probably captains, seemed to be giving reports to their leader, whoever now was in command of Gondor’s army. Even at a distance, Aragorn could tell it was not Denethor, for the Steward was an old man, and the man who stood there with his back to him was obviously not aged. The very breath hitched in Aragorn’s throat when he came closer, it was not the biting smoke in the air, nor the stench of battlefield that made his throat tighten, but the man he saw standing up on the hill, that once had been Wildgrass Howe but now was trampled battlefield.

 

The man up there could not see him, as his back was turned towards Aragorn, but his whole appearance, beginning with the light hair and muscular stature, was very reminiscent of Boromir. Even the stance, which made Aragorn guess the man had his arms crossed in front of his chest, was so much like their comrade. This had to be his younger brother then – Faramir. When he came closer still, his sharp ears picked up a familiar voice.

 

“…no time to waste on ceremonies. Once Dwalin’s people have cleared out the Undercity, we will put the dead to rest there. It’s that or a pyre, Veryan. The enemy may have turned tail but they were merely taken by surprise. I’ll give them less than two weeks to regroup and bring another army right before these very walls.”

 

It could not be, Aragorn though, hearing the familiar voice, realizing that the man who had led the defense of the city was the very person he had believed dead since Amon Hen. “Boromir?” The word came out croaked and low, carrying no further than his own ears. He could scarcely believe it, it seemed all but impossible that Boromir should have survived, let alone made it home to defend his city. Did he dare hope? Hope against all hope that some miracle had saved the man who had stood between him and death at Amon Hen? “Boromir?” This time Aragorn managed to speak out loud, though his voice still shook.

 

The Lord Captain turned around, his hand falling to his blade, but at once releasing the sword hilt when he saw the man who had addressed him. Aragorn saw Boromir’s green eyes widen in startled disbelief, the very same disbelief Aragorn felt was reflected in Boromir’s mien.. “Thorongil!”

 

He was maybe the only person still to use the name that Aragorn had hidden his true identity under so many years ago in Gondor; yet Aragorn knew that it was the name under which Boromir had first heard of him, for good or ill, with all the opinions he had created through his deeds and failings back then. The Captain’s surprise lasted only a moment, seamlessly he snapped into formal behavior and bowed. “Your coming truly saved the battle, my Lord.”

 

This moment failed Aragorn for words. He knew Boromir had never been his friend, hardly respected him – they had agreed and disagreed on a good deal of things on their journey – and the Gondorian Captain had made his belief that Gondor needed no King very clear. Even his brave actions in Amon Hen Aragorn had attributed to the natural loyalty the warrior had given to each member of the group, whether he had liked them or not. The last thing he had expected upon arriving here was Boromir at least formally accepting him and his claim. Stepping up to the man, he drew him into an embrace that conveyed all that he felt and could not say. “We believed you dead,” he said. “When we could not find you, we thought you perished.” Pulling back, he took in Boromir’s face; there were a few deeper lines speaking of exhaustion and sorrow, of things the man had gone through since they had parted.

 

Boromir took half a step back, nearing formal distance and slightly inclined his head. “I came close, Aragorn – the Orcs of the Eye already had me. Had it not been for Kíli and his timely arrival, I’d not be here now.”

 

“Kíli?” Stepping back, Aragorn noticed the two shorter figures among the warriors of Gondor, both were familiar and this was the least of all places he would have expected to see them. “Thirán?” The second question was asked in a much lower voice, when he recognized the second dwarf, who had kept him alive during his darkest days, in chains, down in the deeps of Moria.

 

Thiráns grim face lit up with a smile. “A long way from the deeps to this battlefield, Aragorn.” And only the two of them knew how long. “When Kíli decided to support Lord Boromir in this war, we brought all our brethren to give the Orcs a reminder that they do not rule the world.”

 

Hundreds of Dwarves defending the White City, led by their Prince in Exile? More had transpired than just a surprising return home, that much was obvious. Kíli and Thirán having brought them here… during those dark days down in the mines Aragorn had learned of Thirán’s true name, and of the cruel fate that lay behind the dwarven warrior. Aragorn determined that as soon as he got the chance he needed to sit down with Boromir in a calm place and hear the story of all that had happened. .

 

He wanted to reply when another man came striding up the hill. Like many of Gondor’s people, he had dark hair and the tall stature that heralded the blood of Numenór. He stopped about five paces away, saluting fist over his heart, waiting for permission to speak. But Boromir forestalled this with a gesture, pointing the man to stand with the others assembled here. “It was the banner of the King you saw raised on the field today,” Boromir said, voice firm and clear as he turned to address the Men clustered around them, “and it was not raised in vain. Before you stands Aragorn son of Arathorn of the House of Isildur, heir apparent to the throne of Gondor.”

 

There was a number of different expressions on the soldier’s faces, Aragorn observed. The man standing to Boromir’s right, who looked remarkably like him, paled, his eyes widening – from fear or shock, Aragorn could not guess. The one to the left, a Swan Knight, if the grimmest of his kind that Aragorn had ever seen, was unconvinced. He did not speak up and Aragorn could only guess whether it was out of respect for his Lord Captain or simple false politeness, but the way he looked aside made it clear that he had doubts. The late arrival, a man with a face that reminded Aragorn of a person long dead and gone, inclined his head slightly in lieu of a bow, respectful if guarded. Finding the right words for them, Men who had fought all their lives for this city, was something Aragorn needed to reach deep inside his own soul for.

 

“When I rode from Rohan,” he began, striding up the hill and standing precisely beside Boromir, “I feared for this city. I did not believe it could hold against the Hordes Mordor unleashed, not when Sauron himself was determined to raze her from the ground. This day I am overjoyed to see her in the hands of such capable defenders.” Surveying their faces, their reactions, Aragorn saw the man whom he guessed to be Boromir’s brother relax slightly, the others aside of the Swan Knight gave up on their stiff postures, the wall between him and them lowering a little.

 

When he had finished, there was a moment of silence, Aragorn knew that it was unlikely that the soldiers would speak out of turn, least of all in a situation that was so tense. It was the man standing beside Boromir who took charge of the moment and bowed. “It was our duty to hold the White City, my Lord and we will fight and die to defend her.” There was a glance exchanged between him and Boromir, Aragorn was sure most people would not spot the short silent communication between those two.

 

But a moment after, Boromir again took the lead. “Aragorn, this is my brother Faramir, Captain of the Rangers,” he introduced the man who had spoken.

 

The introduction was not so much of a surprise, Aragorn had already noticed how similar the two brothers looked – only that Faramir did not share his brother’s strong muscular stature and had the finer, more intelligent features. He also resembled Denethor more strongly, if one had seen him in his youthful years and Aragorn also saw traces of Ecthelion in the young Ranger. “I have heard much of Ithilien’s Rangers, though it has been some time the Eagle Owl flew North.”

 

He saw Faramir’s eyes widen and a sparkle rise inside them. “The same could be said about the Grey Hawk flying South,” was the answer, that very nearly had Aragorn smile. When he had originally met Boromir in the wilds of Eriador he had assumed that it was due to Boromir’s position as Lord Captain of Gondor that he knew some superficial details about the Rangers, but with the very leader of the Southern Rangers his brother, he would have picked up some details.

 

When he looked to Boromir he saw an amused glance in the green eyes and guessed that Boromir too had remembered. “This is my second in command – Veryan, Knight of Dol Amroth,” the introductions continued.

 

There was no warmth out of Veryan, he bowed as was proper, not giving anything away nor allowing any breaking of his steely façade. Contrary to most of his family he had the dark hair of Numenór, even though his face bore the proud and noble features of Dol Amroth. Aragorn had met several of the House, none so cold or distanced, but who knew what the man had been through? What did he feel about the situation? Aragorn did not hold the detached demeanor against the man.

 

Boromir turned to the late arrival. “and this is Thoroniâr, the Alaris of the Tower Guard,”

 

Now Aragorn was truly surprised tough the face actually conjured up images of the past, reminding him of a person he had not seen in many decades. The last time he had seen her, she had been freshly married. “Any relation to Erhawn of the Guard?” Aragorn asked, he well recalled the young guardsman and the healer lady… their marriage had happened not long before the campaign against Umbar began. Erhawn had been a friend.  

 

 

“He was my father, my Lord.” Thoroniâr’s response was well guarded, polite but the way he crossed his arms in front of his chest built up a defensive posture.

 

Boromir knew he should not be surprised; Thorongil had fought with Gondor’s very best to defeat Umbar, and it was likely he remembered Erhawn from those days.It took only a glance on the way Thoroniâr’s posture shifted to defensive, and the way he avoided Aragorn’s gaze, to tell that he was uncomfortable with the topic. “Your report, Thoroniâr,” he said, helping the man avoid further conversation.

 

Thoroniâr gladly took off for familiar and safe territory, as Boromir saw at once. “The lower city is cleared of enemies as is the Undercity. We are moving the severely injured to the Houses of Healing; there’s a steady stream coming in of course and all lesser injuries will be sent to the barracks or camps for treatment. Among the wounded is Eowyn of Rohan, my Lord. She is the one who defeated the Witch-king, but… there is doubt she’ll last the night.”

 

“She fought the Nazgul?” Aragorn interjected. “Whatever wound she received must be destroying her. Bring me to her quickly!”

 

On the way to the Houses of Healing in the upper city rings, Aragorn saw the destruction wreaked on Minas Tirith: the lower city rings were entirely scorched, burned by the retreating defenders to slow down the Orcs, her walls battered and broken. But the white city stood – by the light, she still stood! “You fought hard to hold out that long,” he observed to Boromir, who guided him through the chaos.

 

“We knew you were coming,” Boromir simply said. “It was a matter of time.”

 

“Does your father know I am here?” Aragorn wondered why there had been no word about Denethor, Steward of Gondor. He well remembered the cold-hearted, haughty man from days long past and he wondered how he would be received by him.

 

Boromir shook his head, lowering his chin as his shoulders tensed. “Denethor, Steward of Gondor… was killed on the eve of battle,” he said slowly, like every word was a heavy burden. “His passing came before his time.”

 

What a wealth of horror the brothers must have gone through, Aragorn realized. Their father dying or being killed possibly by the enemy, on the eve of the worst battle the world had seen in an Age. He also noticed how Boromir used his father’s name, something he had never done before; the affection that had echoed in his voice when he had spoken of the old man during their journey was gone. Yet Aragorn could neither guess nor divine what had transpired prior to the battle. “I am grieved to hear that.” He could not honestly say he would grieve for Denethor, but he grieved for the pain his passing must give his two sons.

 

Aragorns words triggered a change in the other man. Boromir straightened up, his shoulders squaring, and his jaw setting in a determined line, the moment of vulnerability passing as swiftly as it had come, and the Lord Captain of Gondor once more snapping into place. Within one breath he had gone from grieving son to leader again, disallowing any intrusions on his private pain. What strength, what grim, terrible strength enabling him to bear his own wounds in such silence, Aragorn wondered.

 

“He was not the only one, nor the first. Many more will follow and sleep in their cold graves before this war is over,” Boromir replied grimly, striding up the road faster to swiftly reach the Houses of Healing.

 

TRB

 

In the same night that Aragorn reached Minas Tirith, two wizards faced each other in the tower of Orthanc. They battle had gone for days and was not fought with blades, but with the sheer power of their wills. Saruman’s staff lay broken but the former white Istari was still a foe not to be underestimated and he knew his opponent well. From the stairs of the tower to the very top of Orthanc their battle went, and it was through will and determination that Gandalf slowly gained ground in their struggle of powers. Leaning heavily on his staff, Gandalf looked up the last flight of stairs where Saruman stood, his white robes fluttering in the chill spring wind. “You have been deep in the enemy’s council, Saruman, what does he plan?” he demanded, not for the first time.

 

Saruman laughed at the question, his voice hollow and hoarse, how could Mithrandir be so blind? The power rising in the east was too great to be opposed and the Halfling was all but lost under the shadow. Saruman’s eye had not been able to see him, and he doubted that the little creature had ever reached the dark lands. He staggered a step backwards, the wind threatening to push over his exhausted body.  “The world of men will burn; Gondor is failing, breaking… and with it this world shall perish,” he announced, calling upon his powers for one last time, his bones ached when he reached for the power that he had once commanded so easily. His hands shook, exhaustion sending tremors through his entire body.

 

“What are his plans?” Gandalf did not let himself be deterred, he knew the dark Lord well, had confronted his lesser form in the fortress of Dol Guldur, but he needed to know what Sauron’s tactic would be. The Dark Lord had yet to fear the united strength of the free people of Middle-earth. Slowly he ascended the stairs to the tower’s platform, using his staff as an aid to walk. Each bone in his body was weary, this fight had already gone on too long, Middle-Earth was tethering on the brink of destruction, and he needed to know where the blow would fall.

 

The Lord of Orthanc raised both his hands to the skies, flames appearing in them. “He shall burn your hopes…” he whispered as the flames fell upon himself and Gandalf, a horrible storm of fire, consuming Saruman entirely.

 

Gandalf stumbled backwards, raising his arm to shield himself against the flames, the stench of burning flesh burning his nose, the smoke watering his eyes as he watched Saruman’s chosen end. He had wished for him to find healing but there was no healing for much despair and treachery. But in Saruman’s last moments he saw a glimpse of the dying wizard’s mind – saw the Palantír of Minas Tirith, resting hidden in the Tower of Kings and how Saruman had reached for Denethor’s weak mind, placing knowledge of unnamed torment there and thoughts of destroying their own allies, of destroying those that would aid Gondor – of burning a shameful alliance. Aragorn! He must have set something in motion to prevent Aragorn’s return – for what other ‘shameful alliance’ could Denethor perceive? A gust of wind whirled over the tower to carry away the ashes the fire had left behind. Tired, wishing to just sit and rest, Gandalf clung to his staff. . “What had you done?”

 

The was no answer, only wind whispering on the heights and the cold slowly seeping into his aching bones.. Gandalf sighed; if Saruman had done what he had seen, Minas Tirith might be beyond saving. He hastened down the stairs of Orthanc where Shadowfax still stood at the edge of the water. “We ride to Minas Tirith,” he said, half to himself, half to the loyal horse. “Show me the meaning of haste, old friend.”

 

TRB

 

High upon the passes of the Ered Lithui, the night knew no rest nor silence. While the main armies had perished on the Pelennor, legions had escaped and retreated; the Haradrim and Easterlings had made it across the river; Tarkhan, son of the fallen King of Harad, had taken command after Shakurán had been slain by Boromir, much like his own father had been days before. The retreating troops had reached Minas Morgul and quickly taken over any orc garrison and barracks to be found. In the general confusion of the lost battle, disputes between the orc troops and the Haradrim rose all too quickly and there were too few Easterlings left to handle these before they spread.

 

Deep in the tower dungeon, Anarion heard the noises and the Orcs arguing with the Haradrim taking over the tower. He could not see what was happening, not since the orcs had forced him to face the searing blade for their own sport, a pain beyond pain taking away his eyesight forever. But the Ranger’s ears told him all he could not see. There was fighting in the tower, and chaos; swords clashing, Orc cursing, strong, harsh Harad voices making demands, and there were the screams of injured Orcs and dying Haradrim. The smell of death – of dried blood and fresh bodies seeping into the dungeon that already stank of sweat and despair. He curled his hand around the metal bars confining him, feeling the rusty texture crumbly under his fingers and pulled himself up from his knees.  At once he heard the shuffle of movement and the clanking of Orc armor, telling Anarion that he had drawn the attention of the orc warder, the only orc still down here. “What you think you're doing, soldier-boy?” the Orc sneered, coming closer. “Snaga, Lugdush and the others will have some sport with you when they have done away with that Southron rabble.”

 

Anarion leaned on the rusty metal bars, resting one wrist in a gap, the gaps between the bars were not regular, the cage was not regular in anything, but most of the gaps were large enough to fit his hand through. The Orcs relied more on brute force than finesse to keep they captives. “Do they? Looks more like your stinky friends are getting their skins tanned.” His voice was hoarse; the screams had left it raw and speaking hurt but he cared little. He even used the word ‘looks’ in spite of it hurting his soul even more, he could not allow himself to be weak, to evade what was obvious or fear anything connected with his injury. He would not allow them to make him flinch at every time he thought of seeing, if he did, he’d truly be their broken victim.

 

“Think this is going to help you, soldier-boy?” The Orc came closer – Anarion could hear him shuffle along the stone floor and smell him, Orcs never washed and stank as a matter of course. Though during the last days he had begun to notice differences between their stenches. Paying attention to such details had kept him sane in the dark days past his blinding.  He waited with icy cold until he could tell the Orc was right in front of the bars. In the complete darkness surrounding him now, he needed to hear the Orc’s breath to tell where his throat would be, but then his hand shot up and grabbed the Orc by the throat. The warden choked, struggling against the iron grip, trying to break free, but Anarion did not let go until he heard the breath of the warden still and felt him go limp. Drawing the body close to the bars, he squatted down, carefully searching the dead orc. Only his hands could see for him now, but he could tell the forms of the armor; found the belt, where the sword and the keys hung. Carefully he retrieved the cold, smooth iron key, exhaling slightly.

 

He needed to search for the door and the lock, again his hands guiding him through the total darkness. He took much longer than he would have had he still been able to see, but he knew that his eyes were gone; and he could count himself lucky that they had not simply squeezed his eyes out – an infected injury would have killed or weakened him beyond all that they had done anyway.

 

The lock clicked softly as he turned the key and Anarion pushed it open, it creaked slightly, the hinges being unoiled. Anarion used his hand against the bars to guide himself, reaching beyond his fingers found the rough, uneven stone wall, damp with humidity, lending his fingers solid hold. As he stood there, in the open gate of his cell, surrounded by darkness, the enormity of his plan hit him like the cold waves of fear the Nazgûl exuded. How was he to even think of escaping when he could not see? When he could not fight? Until now he had not allowed himself to think back on all that had been done to him – he had focused on what lay ahead, on escape. Now, in the moment of doubt, it all came back: Orc hands... the pain, the fear, the degradation…

 

His stomach roiled in revulsion when the memories resurfaced, the bitter bile burning in his throat and his hands shook. Cold sweat tickled down his neck, further clamping his long hair. His hand covered his mouth as the disgust, the shame clawed into him again. He should have resisted better, not let them… his throat tightened, but his wounded eyes were unable to produce tears anymore and the remembered pain and shame was shaking him like a storm. Swallowing hard Anarion forced the burning bile out of his throat, taking a slow breath.

 

“No,” he whispered, taking a step forward, always one hand on the wall to find his way in the dark. “I won’t give up until I’m dead.” He remembered the Orcs always coming in from the left side, so he went that way, the wall guiding him, providing a vague sense of direction. When he reached the stairs, he could hear nothing: no voices, no fighting, only silence. Except for the wind howling outside the tower’s windows there was no noise at all, a blanket of utter stillness stifling the tower. Cold air came from above, pebbling against his skin under the ragged clothes he had been left with. Slowly, Anarion began to ascend the stairs, he kept his right hand against the wall and his feet found their steps after the first few quite regularly. No one looked down on a stair he was ascending; only few people noticed that they did not use their eyes to walk entirely. Anarion’s body was aching with every step; he did not allow himself to think of it, focusing totally on the task at hand. Atop the flight of stairs, something caught his foot and he stumbled, nearly fell.

 

Kneeling down, he traced his hands over it, feeling cloth and metal, the form of limbs. A corpse was resting in the hallway; someone had died here, but who? Moving his hand higher, Anarion found the head, his fingers tracing over unblemished features, of even proportions with no piercings, smooth skin and long hair. Haradrim or Easterling, no Orc. And he had been killed using a garrote, the metal still attached to the throat. Gingerly loosening the flexible, thin metal sling, it was a cold as the body before him. Anarion took it. It was not a good weapon, but one he might be able to use. His hand felt the silky cloak of the dead man and a thought came to him. As quickly as he could, he removed the scaly chestplate, the leather underarmor and the cloak from the dead warrior’s body. The leathers fit him passably, as did the scaled chest armor. Throwing the long cloak around his shoulders, he pulled up the hood. He had a long way to go still, Gondor was further away than ever before, but he had a guise he could use and the chaos amongst the enemy troops would hopefully last a while longer. He may never make it home, he had a fighting chance however. As he approached the Tower’s exit, feeling the cool air, clean and fresh mountain air on his face, Anarion felt hope.

 

 


	20. In a dim morning

** Chapter 19: In a dim morning **

****

It had been a long night but at long last morning had come, a pale morning rising above the clouds and a fresh wind from the sea parting the black clouds that had shadowed the skies for so many days. When Kíli finally returned to the Undercity, the sun had nearly climbed to zenith already. He found Dwalin there, who greeted him with a bone-crushing hug. Kíli returned the embrace unashamed – he too was glad that his old friend had come through the night alive. “How many did we lose?” he asked when they went down into the bowels of the Undercity. During five days of battle he had regularly heard from Dwalin who had fallen, but he did not yet know the final toll.

 

“Ninety-two,” Dwalin replied. “we have been laying them to rest in one of the caverns down here and will close their grave our way. Lord Boromir granted us permission to do what we must. They will rest undisturbed here.”

 

Kíli inclined his head; he had known the toll would be high. One out of ten had died. How many of them had come here only because Kíli had chosen to fight this war? He knew the kind of blind loyalty his family still commanded, though he had never believed he held the same sway over his people, like his Uncle had. Still… this war had been his choice; he had come here because he believed in fighting the Shadow, because these were the last days of this age and mainly because Boromir was his friend – a friend thrown into a merciless fight. He had not wanted any others to follow him, but many had – had they believed as he did or felt it was their duty? Had they followed him out of the same obligation that had led his people into so many battles, Azanulbizar, Erebor… he did not want to finish that line of thought.

 

“Don’t you go all teary on me,” Dwalin grumbled. “one out of ten is reasonable, if not outright lucky considering the battle we fought. We all knew what we were in for.”

 

“Were you?” Kíli asked leaning against one of the mighty pillars that supported the sprawling ceiling of the Undercity, the cold stone giving him the strength to stand seemingly without effort. “You are here because I chose this…” He had no problem choosing danger for himself – he had often done so – but this choice had affected many. And what right did he have to ask others to follow him into the fiery end this age would see? Kíli’s priority had always been to protect his people. When he had gone South to join the fight, he had been sure that they would do fine without him, maybe even better – but instead they had felt obliged to fight as well.

 

“Aye,” Dwalin told him, “because you had it right. This is the end of the world; if we don’t fight, we are already lost. Our people, of all peoples, know what it means to face the iron fist of the Orcs. When they heard you gone to fight the Shadow, there couldn’t have been a prouder group of dwarves anywhere.” Kíli felt Dwalin’s strong hand gently on his arm, a gesture of comfort, of warmth. “We all knew what were in for, that this will be a battle to death, and we are proud to follow you under the very wings of the Shadow.”

 

Returning the gesture, Kíli put his hand Dwalin’s shoulder. “I am glad to know you are at my back, each of you.” He recalled Thorin a long time ago – “ _I would take any of these dwarves over the mightiest army” –_ and he understood what his uncle must have felt.

 

Dwalin shrugged, pushing aside the praise. “Aside these men here, there is no one left in this good world to fight. The Elves? They’re running scared and go to their precious ships. Our people? Dain is sitting on his ass in Erebor and wouldn’t think of committing an army if he was paid to do so.” The old warrior snorted disdainfully.

 

“He will have his own war on his hands, if Dol Guldur isn’t sleeping,” Kíli pointed out. Much as he enjoyed the occasional jabs Dwalin would have for Dáin and his ilk, most of the time Kíli tried to be sensible, do what was right and not deepen the gulf that divided his people.

 

“Erebor is the mightiest fortress of the North,” Dwalin grumbled, “well prepared and planned. He could hold out against a siege for years and still commit part of his field army to this battle here. He doesn’t get his head out of his…” He quickly swallowed some very, very rude words that no one should utter about any King, least of all if said King’s second cousin stood right beside him.

 

Kíli hid a smile at Dwalin’s rant; the old warrior had no gentle tongue and would usually say what he thought in blunt words. He was absolutely honest and had no shred of deceit in him. Kíli relaxed the situation by finding a bucket of water, enough to finally wash beyond the barest necessities. He knelt down and removed his gauntlets and the chainmail to wash the blood off his hands, arms and body.

 

“Kíli… your arm.” Dwalin’s eyes had gone wide, and his eyes trailed along Kíli’s arm, his hand pointing at it in surprise.

 

Puzzled, Kíli followed the glance; he had felt no injury beyond a few bruises on the arm, and only expected it to be gory because he had rammed his blade into the belly of more than a few Olog-hai and had been hit with the vile stream of their blood. When looked down on his sword arm, he could hardly believe it. All along the forearm, from wrist to elbow, he was marked with a fiery dragon. The horned head sat just above the elbow and it wound all along the arm, with the tail nearly touching the back of his hand. Gingerly, he touched his skin; it was cool and whole, but strangely felt alive under his fingers, but there was no sign of burn or even the needle. Above the dragon’s head was a rune band, like it was a treasure the dragon guarded. Kíli twisted his arm to see the runes fully. They were ancient Khuzdul. “Dolek Nardûn,” he whispered. “The gift of brothers…”

 

Dwalin had squatted down beside Kíli, his eyes taking in the fiery mark along his arm. He knew of stories about such marks, heralding heroics and legends, but he had never seen one for real in all his life. Dwalin bit back a snort, he had not believed those marks would even exist, they were part of legends, something bards invented to spice up a good tale. Or so he had believed. “How could this happen?” he asked hushed. “When… what did it do to you?”

 

“No, Dwalin.” Kíli looked at the older warrior. “This… this is a gift.” Ever since the events in the Tower of Kings, he had been focused on other things, on the brothers, on the upcoming battle, on fighting and surviving, he had not had a moment’s time to truly stop and just feel. But now, that the calm settled in, he felt a calm, a peace he had not felt for oh so long. For the first time in seven decades, the hole that his brother’s death left in soul did not hurt. In that short, sweet moment during the spell they had seen each other, like they both were still alive and strangely, it had not hurt. It had been a moment, fleeting and fading but it had been enough to say goodbye, to know Fíli was still there, would wait for him on the day Kíli’s time came to leave Arda behind.

 

Kíli’s left hand pressed against his chest, his breath heaved hard, he had so long lived with the pain that he hardly could believe he was whole again, complete and not alone any longer. He knew he would not see Fíli again in many years and the thought carried no sharp pain any more, only a distant sadness. Through a fate he could not even dare to understand, he had been blessed with the gift of a brother for the second time in his life. He blinked hard; tears welling up in his eyes. Mahal,he was not a dwarfling anymore to be on the verge of tears so easily – and yet he was hardly able to hold them back now. “Tis a gift, a mercy…”

 

TRB

 

The dawn found Boromir in the what remained of the first ring oft he city, seeing to the myriad of things that needed to be organized if the City was to hold out through another attack that he had no doubt would come. This war had just begun, and the enemy was regrouping. Still, he could see the hope in the eyes of the soldiers, and hope would carry through the next night that would come.

 

A familiar figure ducked under a half collapsed archway and stepped into the street that had been cleared of rubble. Flakes of ash fell from the stones and marred the clean armor of of the Prince of Dol Amroth. “My Lord Steward.” Imrahil of Dol Amroth greeted Boromir..

 

Boromir shook his head. “It is Captain still, Imrahil. I have not yet taken my father’s place and mayhap I never will.” He had his doubts he would ever sit in Denethor’s chair. Even if the war left more than a pile of rubble of Minas Tirith, even if Frodo managed to complete his mission, even if the Shadow was defeated – Boromir doubted he’d see the day of victory. He held no fears in that thought, he had come to accept that truth a long time ago. All their lives would be spent eventually to protect the White City. _My life for Gondor. Gondor above all. No ties but her._ It was the vow he had sworn on the day he had become a soldier of Gondor, a son of Gondor and he had lived by that vow ever since. The very thought of following Denethor as a Steward of Gondor seemed unreal, like something from a dream, half-forgotten come dawn.

 

“Because of the Return of the King?” Imrahil asked, his voice carefully guarded. “There is talk all over the City – with you so publically supporting his claim, every soldier and milkmaid of this City knows it has to be true.”

 

“If you are telling me I should have asked the council of nobles first…”

 

“You will tell me again that you have a spot for them on the front lines.” Imrahil finished the line he knew all too well. “Boromir, how often have been over this?”

 

“So you doubt his claim?” Boromir shifted his balance, leaning back on his heels as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He wields Narsil, the sword of Elendil. No one not of the true line could wield that blade, for it turns on any other who would try. To the latter I can attest myself.” He vividly recalled the small run-in in Rivendell; even broken, the sword had not tolerated his touch.

 

“I am older than you, Boromir, and, like your father, I remember Thorongil well,” Imrahil said, “and nay, I do not doubt him. I did not know back then, even as I suspected and hoped… but I do not doubt now.” He met Boromir’s eyes evenly. “But others will. The noble houses will wonder how it could happen that only days before Lord Aragorn’s arriving here, your father could die… and in the presence of only you and your brother.”

 

“Thoroniâr was there as well.”

 

“A man absolutely devoted to you.” Imrahil waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, like waving the whole argument aside, along with the man it pertained. “If you ordered him to, he would do anything, even cover up a murder.”

 

“So you believe I murdered my father?” Boromir asked incredulously, his arms came down to his sides and his stance shifted forward, a stance ready to fight. Of all possible explanations the noble houses could come up with, this was by far the strangest. “For what?”

 

“To clear the path to the throne for Aragorn, who obviously has your loyalty? I know you, Boromir – for a cause you believe in, you would do nearly anything you deem necessary. Sadly, the long war with the Shadow has taught you to do what is needful before doing what is right…”

 

“Are you saying you truly believe I murdered my father?” Now Boromir’s eyes flashed dangerously, anger rising inside him like a white-hot flame. What fools they were! Even worse than some of those at the Council. How could they dare to think he would kill his father? Murder him – for Thorongil of all people? His breath quickened and he felt his pulse tick hard in his temple. Raising one hand he pointed at the man before him. “By what right, by what proof do you make your accusation, Imrahil? Think twice before answering me, for if you have no proof, and I know you have none, I will call you out to single combat and gut you like a fish for your dishonorable words.”

 

The Prince took a step back, shocked by the passionate intensity in Boromir’s eyes. His nephew had always been tough, hard, and fierce in his beliefs, but this… this was an anger and fire he had never seen in him before. “I do not have any proof,” he admitted, “and I know that the story about the traitor is… easily proven, especially as the Tower Guard has the body of the treacherous person said to having killed your father. Thoroniâr would not forget such a detail. Had I not heard the story from my own son, I would not have believed it on first hearing too.”

 

He had believed it at first but it had rubbed him the wrong way. The story of what had happened had spread from those loyal to Boromir, Thoroniâr had told Veryan, and Veryan politically savvy son of Dol Amroth had polished it into the version that was now circulating in the city. No one could even accuse the sons of Denethor of having lied – it had been done by their minions, amongst which was one of Imrahil’s own sons. And those minions – namely Thoroniâr, had seen to it that the body of a traitor was at hand, sadly he had been killed by the Tower Guard after he had slain the Steward, sadly all proof there was of his treachery had been letters, which had been brought to Denethor prior to the arrest being made, and sadly the letters had been soaked in so much blood that they were all but unreadable. All details were covered and Imrahil was sure he was looking at the thorough work of Thoroniâr.

 

“Believe what you wish,” Boromir told him, his hand curling up in a fist. He forced himself to lower the fist and unclench his hands, but the angry pulse was still racing through him. “I did not murder my father; he fell afoul of something… darker and more sinister than I wish to ever speak of.”

 

“Do you truly believe in him?” Imrahil asked suddenly. “Do you in your heart truly believe in Aragorn? Would you follow him? Step aside and see him crowned?”

 

That was the question they all would ask – did he believe in the returned King? He believed his claim genuine, which was enough. Did he revere Isildur’s Line? Certainly not, but he was aware of the powerful symbol of hope Aragorn’s House was for Gondor. It was enough to curb his pride. Would he step aside and see Thorongil crowned? If he believed the claim true, it would be his duty eventually, like it or not. But that day was far off – there was a war to fight first and this war needed Aragorn, needed the hope he brought, needed his ability to unite the world of Men under one banner. It had to be enough.

 

“We have to fight a war first, Imrahil,” Boromir reminded him, “and the way things are, I might end up following him to death.” He turned around and walked off, not wishing to continue the conversation. They did not understand, or maybe they just judged by what they knew of him. Boromir knew his duty, and he would do his duty, he had sworn to do so when he had just been sixteen winters old, and he would do so to the day he died. It did not help that the subject of Thorongil was a complicated one, to say the least. It would have been easier if he could simply despised the last of Isildur’s line, and while he certainly was not a friend of Aragorn, he would admit the Ranger was a good man, a good comrade, more of a healer than a warrior at times and… who knew what King he would be, if they came through this storm? Not that Boromir himself would see that day, but until then he’d do his duty. Having not looked up when he strode down the rest of the way to the broken gate that he only just avoided collision with a familiar figure. Clad in the grey Elven cloak Aragorn, resembled the northern Ranger once more. “Forgive me, I did not see where I was going,” Borormir said.

 

Aragorn raised his hands, like he wanted to block off the very words. “Let us speak outside the walls,” he said, and together they walked through the rubble that remained of the Gate and out into the field. Now that the dead had been removed and the Orc carcasses burned, the fields were easier to bear. “I could not help but hear your conversation with Imrahil,” Aragorn said after they had silently walked towards the very foothill where Boromir had defeated Shakurán. “He is a proud Man, and sometimes nearly Elven in the webs of intrigues he perceives anywhere.”

 

“And you wish to know whether or not his accusations are true.” Boromir responded.

 

“Nay!” Aragorn stopped, facing Boromir. “Not even when I feared that the Ring may take you have I been thinking that low of you. I know you would not stoop to murder; you are far too honorable for that. You would not sacrifice your honor, least of all for me.” Seeing Boromir’s surprised glance, he raised his hand. “Can we speak openly? Here, away from all prying ears?”

 

“If you wish so.” Boromir inclined his head deferring to Thorongil’s wish, as he took half a step back and relaxed his stance into the same posture of a soldier discussing something with a superior.

 

Aragorn saw the shift of stance in Boromir, subtle but clear deference still written over the man’s demeanor. “You still do it,” he said. “You treat me like I am your Lord, even as I know I am not.” He raised his hand, forestalling the comment that was sure to come. “We were not friends when we set out on our quest, but we respected each other, Boromir. And out of that respect I ask the truth from you. Why? You made it clear you all but despised the House of Isildur, yet you greeted me as the King of your people.”

 

Looking past him, Boromir’s eyes went up the Citadel, to the white tower of Ecthelion. “You are Gondor’s hope, Aragorn. Maybe her last hope. I would not deprive my people of that.”

 

His eyes went back to the plains; the wide land surrounding the city had always spelled _home_ for him. It was the land he had grown up in, the fields and trenches he had roamed about with Faramir, the field paths he had ridden along on the back of Erhawn’s tall stallion, Thoroniâr behind him… only two boys in that moment, knowing nothing of war or pain. Home – they had soon enough learned that their home was tethering on the edge of the Shadow, that fire and death awaited less than a day’s ride to the East. And he had sworn to protect his people. And yet he knew that all he could do to defend Gondor would not be enough – much like the rule of the Steward’s house had never been quite enough, always in the shadow of the empty throne to remind them that no matter what they achieved or how hard they fought, they were not good enough in the end. At a time in the past it had made him bitter to be considered second to one who had shirked his own duty.

 

But all that was in the past, and when he looked over the burned fields and scorched villages, all he wanted to bring peace back to Gondor, to spare her further suffering, and if following a King would achieve that, he’d do it. His own feelings, raw, untamed and still stubbornly angry were of no consequence where Gondor was concerned. To resist and cause enmity was to do the Enemy’s work and he had already come too close to doing that. He realized that he had been silent for too long and swiftly continued speaking. “The last thing we need is strife while the Enemy knocks on our very gates. You are the Man who can reunite the world of Men under one banner to fight the Shadow. You are the ray of light that may yet save Gondor. And thus I stand with you.”

 

“ _Gondor above all_.” Aragorn spoke the words softly, remembering the oath every soldier of Gondor took. He knew Boromir lived by this creed absolutely. He was also shaken by Boromir’s belief that he could be the savior of Gondor, even as it was the only reason why Boromir supported him. He would do anything for Gondor – even sacrifice his own lofty pride and ambitions.

 

“I thank you for your honesty, Boromir.” Aragorn studied the other Man’s face silently, Boromir’s features were lean, more drawn then they had been when they had last seen each other, the fighting, the siege, exhaustion and grief had etched fresh lines into his proud mien, though those were secondary to the strength, the determination written over him. The face was not open though, it was the carefully guarded mien of a soldier, not giving away vulnerabilities. When Boromir had spoken, Aragorn had seen many emotions reflected in those green eyes, anger, pride, hurt, and contempt, along with sadness. The desperation he had seen in Boromir’s eyes in Rivendell was gone though, as had some of the bitterness, but how Boromir had found the strength to overcome them remained unknown and There was no doubt that Boromir did not think of him any higher than he had during their wanderings and Aragortn wondered, if he’d ever win his honest respect. “And I am glad to know you with me in this.”

 

Boromir was about to reply with something, if only to suggest that they return to the city, but he saw a bright spot on the fields beyond Aragorn’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed, staring past Aragorn out on the field, where a single white rider had come in sight, his horse racing across Pelennor fields with a speed that seemed nearly impossible. Boromir drew his sword, the black blade steady in his hand, the cold steel did more to calm him than all the talking before. “Back to the Gate, Aragorn…” he ordered sharply, Saruman had picked an ill time to make an appearance here.

 

 Yet Isildur’s heir laughed. “Sheathe your sword, Boromir – this is one foe you will not need to fight.”

 

TRB

 

Aragorn looked about the stark room in the Citadel; he had known the very same room many years ago, and it felt strange to stand here again, like no time had passed, like he was still that younger warrior he had been when Ecthelion had ruled this city. But it was an illusion, for the room itself was changed. The Captain’s guard room was said to reflect the different personalities of the Men who held the rank of Captain of Gondor.

 

During his time as Thorongil, he had seen two different Men hold this spot. Under Harluin the room had felt antiquated, dusty, a room of forgotten glory; and under Turayne the room had felt comfortable, welcoming, with a circle of deep chairs at the fireplace, and two tables always stacked with reports, notes and a variety of books. Now it was neither: stark, pragmatic and much changed from the past. No banners adorned the walls; the only thing to break the stark stone surfaces were two detailed maps, one of Mordor and one of Harad. A weapons rack by the door allowed an assortment of swords and other weapons to be stored, always ready to fight, and there were a number of simple chairs grouped around the stone table, allowing for discussions or strategizing among the officers.

 

The only comfort the room still had was the huge fireplace to the side. Aragorn had been surprised when Boromir had chosen this place for them to speak to Gandalf instead of the council hall, but he understood that it might simply be habit. He did not know precisely for how long Boromir had held the place of Lord Captain of Gondor – but he certainly had a for a number of years, and he’d have been one of the youngest men to rise to this position either way. Even now – at the age of 41 he would be counted young in the company of those who had preceded him.

 

Aragorn had sent for Legolas, Gimli and Eomer, who should hear of Gandalf’s return as well. All three had arrived swiftly, with Legolas and Gimli greeting the White Wizard heartily, while Éomer cast a quick look about, before walking to the fireplace, leaning with his back against the stone surface. Boromir returned to the room the same moment, with his brother Faramir and Kíli accompanying him. Aragorn silently agreed with the choices, the Captain of the Rangers would need to know about their planning and Kíli… he was as much an ally as Éomer was. Although his saw Gimli visibly tense when Kíli walked in.

 

Gandalf turned away from his conversation with Legolas. “I feared for this City,” he stated, sitting down in one of the chairs by the table. “Saruman… How deep his treachery went we may never know, but his pride and vengeance lived on with him to his last moments. He worked evil on the mind of Lord Denethor, for revenge upon me and upon those who foiled his plan to gain the Ring.” Aragorn saw how Gandalf’s glance went to Boromir, who stood at the far end of the room, in front of the wall with the map of Harad. The Lord Captain was at ease in this room, on familiar grounds, and met the wizard’s gaze evenly, even as he acknowledged the words with a grim nod.

 

 “The Lord Steward is dead, Gandalf. If what you say is true, a greater evil then we could see was at work in his demise.” Boromir kept his voice steady as he spoke, the news that Saruman had been manipulating Denethor through the Palantîr were worrysome on some level but largely irrelevant to the current situation, as he seriously hoped Gandalf had dealt with the traitorous Istari.

 

The moment Denethor’s name was mentioned, Aragorn saw Faramir tense and Kíli’s face snap into an impassive mask. Both left the spots they had been standing in, and closed ranks with Boromir, which put them on the one side of the room, with Aragorn and his comrades on the other side. He did not like the way Gandalf’s question had opened a front here.

 

Gandalf cast a sharp glance at the Lord Captain, he too had noticed the change in the three and scrutinized Boromir more deeply. “Dead? How? What happened?”

 

His question was met with silence by Denethor’s sons. Aragorn saw the tension in both Men, and knowing what Gandalf had just said, he wondered what darkness had worked on Denethor’s mind, what had transpired here. If Denethor had truly fallen into darkness his own actions might have been guided by Saruman’s hand – Aragorn did not want to imagine what kind of madness had played out in this city prior to the battle. But now that he thought of this he wondered, if Boromir had avoided to have this meeting in the Council Hall because his father’s presence would still linger in the very hall Denethor had ruled Gondor from for many decades. “I know that this is painful for you to speak of,” he said when there was no answer, “but if Saruman had a hand in Denethor’s death, we must know.”

 

“For what difference, Aragorn?” Boromir crossed his arms in front of his chest, shoulders tensing as he gave Aragorn a hard stare. “He is dead. What was done to him and by him is irrelevant for us now that the war is upon us.”

 

“He may have done more than you saw,” Gandalf replied. “Saruman’s mind held the strong notion of making him turn on someone to divide you.”

 

“My liege…” Faramir spoke up, keeping his tone calm and diplomatic, he had to try and smooth over the waves.  Knowing his brother like only he could, he could tell that Boromir had worded his defiance as politely as he still could, but was close to dismissing Aragorn from this room like an unruly recruit. With his brother’s temper so tense, Faramir would have to try and run interference between him and Isildur’s Heir. Why had both of them to be blessed with a stubborn will? “We will not deny you answers, but my brother is true in his words that all that was done is now past.” He wished he’d never have to speak of that day again, of Denethor’s last hours… and of his last deed. Faramir knew he could forgive the old man for what he had done to him, but he was pained and ashamed of Denethor’s actions against others.

 

It pained Aragorn that he would have to insist on the details; he could see how deeply the death –no, not just the death, but the _way_ Denethor had left this world – had hurt both of his sons deeply. Before he could speak, Kíli stepped forward, placing himself between Aragorn and the brothers. “Lord Denethor tried to make use of this City’s Palantír to learn the Enemy’s weakness.” Aragorn saw at once how Kíli’s posture had shifted, he stood tall – if that could be said of a dwarf – firm and in control, what he said was a _statement_ and one that he expected to be accepted without further debates. This was a Prince speaking, not a warrior, nor an ally. “But he was confronted with something through the artifact that broke his mind and he committed suicide. If Saruman indeed used one of the Seeing Stones as well, it would explain what happened to him.”

 

There was truth in Kíli’s words. Aragorn had long learned to hear deceit when spoken, but he was also sure that there was much more to this story. He also understood what went unsaid in the moment that Kíli stood between him and the brothers. Of all people present in this room, Kíli’s bloodline and legacy were ancient and high enough to put him on even rank with Aragorn himself. And that he was challenging Aragorn’s questions to the brothers in that manner made clear he saw them as _his_ allies, whom he would defend against anyone. Aragorn sighed, he had seen the friendship between Kíli and Boromir grow in Moria and now it had blossomed into a full-fledged alliance, complicating things even further.

 

“What of the person Saruman wished to turn him against, Master Dwarf?” Gandalf asked, a hint of temper in his voice. “If his plans are still in motion, even past his death, there might be danger here.”

 

Boromir understood the unspoken fear of the Wizard: that Denethor even from beyond the grave would strike a blow against Aragorn. It was something that would have fitted the diseased mind of the Master of Orthanc.

 

“And what if I told you that all Saruman may have whispered into Denethor’s mind has already transpired and still is none of your business, Master Wizard?” Kíli’s voice had sunken to deep growl, and in that moment he was more similar to his Uncle than he knew. “Not all secrets need to come into the hands of a Wizard.”

 

Gandalf cast the dwarf a glare full of barely restrained temper, muttering something about the stubbornness of dwarves and having had enough of dwarves for quite a while.

 

Boromir turned to Kíli who still stood between him and the others, exchanging impressive glares with Gandalf, who muttered something about the stubbornness of Dwarves. “Prince Kíli?”

 

Boromir’s words had the Dwarf’s attention at once, he turned away from the Wizard, giving Boromir his full attention. Their eyes met and Kíli could see the sadness, pain and resignation in his friend’s eyes and he understood words where not necessary, he could hear all Boromir wanted to ask him in the silence between them. “This tragedy is yours to share, Lord Boromir,” he replied a small inclining of his head indicating respect for Boromir’s decision, “and I still stand by my opinion that there is no need to pry into your pain. The danger has passed.”

 

“True though that may be, Aragorn has the right to know what fate befell the last Steward,” Boromir said with finality. “And I have learned that such things – secrets, whispers in the dark, knowledge hoarded and kept away – are the weapon of the Enemy, for we only hurt ourselves through our own secrecy. It may hurt us when these things come to light, as the sunlight will hurt our eyes, but it is the only way to free ourselves of the chains the past weaves on us and heal.” Boromir knew that Kíli would understand what he was trying to say, much as his own words sounded strange to him. “You never spoke of my father’s actions against you…”

 

Kíli forestalled any further words with a gesture of his hand. “There was no need to speak of them. It was by your hand that I was saved.”

 

Facing Aragorn, Boromir suddenly felt calm, calmer than he had since he had gone to the King’s Tower. “My father believed me bewitched when I failed to bring the Ring to him,” he said, his heart lightening as the truth he had carried so long in silence came to the light. It was painful, all dark secrets hurt when brought to the stark light of day, but is also broke their power, “and he rightly concluded that Kíli had something to do with my failing to do so. Believing it was a spell or enchantment, he turned on him to… learn the means by which it was achieved.”

 

“What madness could have possessed him to so misread friendship and loyalty?” Gandalf asked, both of his hands clutching his staff so tightly until their knuckles went pale.

 

“I do not know what my father saw in the Palantír, and I am grateful for that mercy, but when my father’s state of mind was revealed through his own actions, he also revealed that he saw another way to prevent these visions from coming to pass; in his last act, he tried to kill my brother, before impaling himself on my sword.”

 

What kind of madness, of twisted power would make a father turn on his own son, Aragorn wondered. Now he understood why Boromir had been so reluctant to speak of Denethor at all. He had loved his father – and he had been the instrument Denethor chose for his suicide. Impulsively, Aragorn rose from his chair, walking past the table and towards the Steward’s sons. He could not imagine the horror they had suffered at their own father’s hands. It was easy to hate a stranger for his haughtiness and cruelty – to see the same traits in a father was beyond terrible. And seeing a father beloved willing to destroy his own children… Aragorn did not want to imagine the pain the Steward’s last actions had bestowed upon his sons. “It pains me that I had to force you to speak of this,” he said to both of them. “To make you remember what must have been the cruelest thing that may befall any son. And while I fear that all he did is beyond what you would speak, I am content with what I know.”

 

“He did not do anything beyond nearly killing Faramir,” Boromir pointed out. “It is Kíli who bore the other marks of this encounter.”

 

“Like the mark you on your hand?” Aragorn asked.

 

“What mark?” Boromir frowned, puzzled as to what Thorongil was speaking of. He bore no physical marks from the encounter with his father, for none of Denethor’s sword strikes had reached him. He raised his sword hand to discover a small red mark near the wrist. He could not recall any injury to the arm but had paid only scant attention when he had washed off the blood some time during the night. Swiftly, he removed the vambrace to free his arm. He felt a tremor running through his skin when, he looked at his own sword arm, now marked by a fiery Dragon wrapping around it up to the elbow.

 

“You also?” Kíli asked, revealing an identical mark on his arm.

 

Both of them looked to Faramir, who had watched the revelation, with wide, astonished eyes. “I thought it was only me, a mark from the healing,” he told them as he revealed an identical Dragon on his sword arm.

 

“The healing… it must have been.” Boromir could see he and his brother had the inscription in Adûnaic, but Kíli’s was in Khuzdul; except for this, the Dragons were identical. “Winterflame broke, it must have left this.”

 

Gandalf rose from his chair and strode across the room to join them. He silently studied the marks with wizened eyes, comparing them and their inscriptions for several minutes. “What spell did you use?” he asked eventually. “What did you carve into that sword?”.

 

“The darkness dies,” Kíli said it felt strange to name the spell like this; it sounded incorrect in the tongue of Men, so he added the first line of it in the original tongue.

 

The old Wizard looked at the three and suddenly he laughed. “In more than an Age no Man, or Elf, or Dwarf has dared to use these words, for the powers they invoke are fierce. And you used it together? Not even the wisest may have foreseen this. The bond that links you is nothing I will claim to understand, but it is not a gift of evil.”

 

“We know, Mithrandir,” Faramir said, his voice firm yet respectful. “We know it is a blessing.”

 

TRB

 

The heavy steps of the Orcs echoed off into the woods, and Anarion let out a slow breath; they had mistaken him for a corpse, one of the many injured soldiers that had been left behind on the western slopes of the mountains. Wearing a Haradrim armor and cloak, the young Ranger had been mistaken for a wounded warrior of the recent battle several times. He had managed to scrounge up a veiled Haradrim helmet to hide his face, and as far as his experiences in these last hours served, he passed muster at a distance as another incapacitated straggler. But he knew that on close inspection, his eyes would give him away. Even before the searing blade had taken his sight forever, he had lacked the dark luster of the Southlander eyes. His eyes were greyish-green and would always betray him as a Man from Northern Gondor.

 

Certain the Orcs were marching off, he rose from where he had lain between the bushes and moved on. When he had initially escaped the Orc tower, he had been scared to move through the open expanse that he could not see any more. But with each hour of walking, using his hands to find his way by rocks and trees, trusting his ears and senses to guide him, he had found a measure of confidence again. He knew he had been incredibly lucky – at no other time could any Man have dared to take the Morgul Road west, but with the masses of injured soldiers and the general chaos, no one had paid him any heed. Twice he had been forced to defend himself against Orcs believing him to be a weakened Haradrim soldier. He had killed one with the garrote and stabbed the other when he had come too close. Both experiences had been frightening, and inwardly Anarion had thanked Lord Faramir, who had insisted each of his Rangers must be able to fight in utter dark.

 

Every step down the Morgul Road had taken Anarion back to Ithilien and closer to home. Knowing the lay of the land helped him keep a sense of direction, as did the sun that shone warmly on his face during the day. Now, as the evening approached, his best guide was sinking behind the western horizon. Passing a few bushes, his hands found a tree trunk and he stopped. The trunk was wide enough for him not to be able to put his arms around it – a huge tree with a deeply entrenched, patterned bark. Gently, Anarion traced his hands over the tree skin, feeling the rough surface and inhaling the familiar fresh smell; an Ithilien Elm no doubt. He could feel moss and bearded lichens on one side; they smoothened the rough surface. The main weather side in Ithilien was generally southwest; from whence the rain came and that was the side where the moss grew. Checking it on the next tree, he found the traces of soft, clingy moss on the same side and it helped him to gain direction again.

 

He kept a direction that was roughly west, usually walking ducked between bushes and underbrush, using a spear he had found on a dead Man to feel the ground before him. Often enough, a sharp pain rose inside his chest while he went but he ignored it, he pressed his hand against his chest and forced himself to breathe slowly and steadily until the fit was over. The pain form the cuts and bruises on his abdomen and legs, and all the other traces from the Orc’s “sport”, he tried to not identify in his own mind. Those were injuries, all just injuries, no matter how he had received them. He did not allow himself to think back, to what had transpired during his captivity. He was free, and freedom was all that mattered. Having to search his way with his hands, and by the noises and smells of the land, Anarion felt that he moved slowly, having no real way to measure his progress, and thus he was surprised when he heard the hollow roar of the Anduin ahead of him. Had he truly reached the river?

 

Listening to the sounds of the evening, he crept closer, his hands finding grass, and then the sand of the riverbank. It was true: he had come back to the River. The last warm rays of the sun he had felt on his face had been an hour ago –  or more, he did not entirely trust his sense of time, but he knew it had to be night by now. Hoping the dark would provide additional cover as he left the protection of the tree-line and bushes, Anarion made his way down to the rushing waters, the rapid icy river greeting him with the familiar smells of water, earth, and home. Kneeling down by the water, Anarion put his hands into the stream, the cool touch of the flood like something long forgotten. He cleaned his hands best that he could before drinking a few gulps of the icy water. He was not sure when he had last drunk something other than the foul brew down in the dungeons.

 

Relieved though he was, he knew he must not linger long. The Riverbank was a dangerous and exposed area and he had no way to tell where exactly he was. Somewhere north of Osgiliath, he ventured to guess; the River calmed considerably south of the city. He’d have to risk the swim across; there was no way around that.

 

A noise made him freeze. The first thing he heard was something heavy moving, hooves and a huffing sound. A horse. Staying totally still, Anarion listened into the night around him. A rider? A patrol? Had he been spotted?

 

The movement came closer; and he could hear the splashing of heavy hooves in the water, and steel horseshoes clunk on the riverstones, come closer along with the deep huffing of the animal. The horse was actually coming at him from across the river. Amen Ford? Could it be that he was at Amen Ford? It was one of the few places where horses could get across now that the bridge was destroyed. He heard the huff right above him – the horse must be standing close but there was no voice, no attack, nor any other indication of a rider.

 

Slowly Anarion rose. “Seems you too escaped the battle,” he said softly, reaching out to find the horse’s neck with his hand, and it tolerated his touch. He had to strain his arm to reach the neck fully and his shoulder and chest protested against the sudden movement. The horse was taller than any horse he had ever encountered. The horse’s thick coat was coarse under his fingers and coated with dirt and blood. Tracing his hand along its back, he found the saddle. When he touched the leather of the saddle the animal huffed again. “I guess I know what you want, poor friend,” The horse was probably thirsty, but with the tight girth would be unable to drink without pain.,. It took him a moment to find the buckles to loosen; the saddle was a heavy one meant for an armored rider, and he took it off entirely. The horse was tired, sweat and dried blood caking its flanks. When he had removed the saddle, the horse whined softly. Trying to comfort the huge beast, Anarion stroked the clean-lined head, his hands coming in contact with the bridle; it was made from steel and cut deep into the horse’s sensitive mouth. He could smell the coppery whiff of fresh blood. He frowned. Even the Haradrim, cruel bastards that they were, did not do this; they loved their horses nearly as much as the Rohirrim did. Removing the bridle was easier than the saddle, and while Anarion knew his prolonged stay on the riverbank was increasingly dangerous, he refused to let another being suffer needlessly. By its very presence, the horse had told him where he was at the river – it deserved as much consideration in return. Once the bridle was removed, the horse began to drink greedily. Anarion smiled and stroked the powerful flank. “That’s better, is it not?” he said softly.

 

The horse moved, heavy hooves scratching and clonking along the stones and mud of the riverbank.  Anarion he stepped back to avoid being pushed over; he could only guess that the animal was turned around, maybe to run away, maybe to get to another spot of water. Maybe it was hungry and wanted to get to the grass and bushes upshore. Taking another careful step back, Anarion was sure he was out of range for the horse but instead, he felt a nudge against his shoulder The soft mouth of the horse, gently nudged him, rubbing against his neck. He felt the soft fur and rougher mane touch the sore skin of his neck. “You wouldn’t mind carrying me for a few miles, I guess,” he said softly.

 

Careful to keep one hand on the horse’s back he moved to the huge animal’s side and squatted down, to run his hands along the horse’s legs. Comparing the height of the horse’s leg to his own squatted form, reinforced the impression of a huge steed. He checked the legs for injuries thoroughly, finding none. It seemed a miracle the horse had suffered no cuts or gashes to its extremities over the course of battle. Checking the hooves for stones and injury proved trickier, as it took several tries to make the horse lift its hooves. His fingers found heavy stamped horseshoes, which like the saddle indicated an armored rider.

 

Standing again, he gently petted the horse, feeling it again nudge him. It may be a way to go faster but being unable to see where he went made the prospect of riding frightening at the same time. He would not be able to control direction like he was when walking, nor could he anticipate dangers. On the other hand – he knew this land. If this was Amen Ford, it would take a nearly straight line west to bring him back to the city. And he could anticipate the speed of the horse better than his own walking. He’d have to recheck his direction every other hour, he decided. Walking past the huge animal, he got to the side and traced his hands over the blank horseback. It was warm, muscles flexing under his touch, but the entire coat was caked together with dried sweat. Every muscle in Anarion’s battered body protested when he stretched his arms and mounted the tall steed. “We need to go west, to Minas Tirith.” He wondered what commands the horse might know, aside from the directions a rider gave with his legs. Nudging the horse to turn around towards the river, a thought came to him. If the horse came from the black lands, it would be used to another tongue. “Tarzâk, Ital-Gurd,” he repeated the same words in the dark language. A shrill neigh echoed through the cool night air as the horse turned fully to the river and crossed the ford with him. On the western riverbank, the horse climbed the hillside quickly and began to race.

 

TRB

 

It was that same evening that Faramir returned to the Citadel, glad for a long day to be over. Many things had to be done, and Boromir had kept his brother busy enough with getting Minas Tirith back into fighting shape. When he ascended the stairs to the upper courtyard, he spotted two small figures looking around. Halflings – they looked much like Frodo and Sam had; only that one of them wore a leather armor of Rohirric making and the other an Elven cloak. “What brings two Perian to the citadel?” Faramir asked them.

 

The one in the leather armor looked up to him, and then bowed slightly. “We were told that Lord Boromir would be found up at the Citadel.”

 

“And the guard forgot to mention that the Citadel is a wee bit larger than a house,” the other chimed in.

 

“You must be the other two Perian who travelled with him from Imladris,” Faramir guessed, recalling what Frodo had said about his companions. He had claimed two of them had been his kin. “Follow me, I will bring you to him.”

 

“You must be his brother he spoke of so often,” the one in the leather armor observed. “You look an awful lot like him.”

 

“He told you of us?” the other one in the Elven cloak piped up. Faramir had to assume that he was the younger one, for the other nudged him slightly and whispered a sharp “Pippin!” to him.

 

The gesture had such a great-brotherly feeling to it, it made Faramir smile.“ Not in that many words, except that he feared you perished during the Orc raid on Amon Hen when you were separated. He will be glad to see you alive.”

 

This elicited a smile from both of them. “We feared for him too,” Pippin said. “When Strider met us again, he said Boromir had been killed by the Orcs. It seemed unjust that after protecting us so much he should die like that.”

 

“Did he? Protect you, I mean?” Faramir recalled many things Boromir had told him about these two – their mischievousness, the night they had put some itchroot into Gandalf’s pipe-weed, how they had even been able to handle a boat, stories that had made Faramir laugh or smile.

 

“He did,” Merry spoke up. “He taught us how to use our swords and he helped us. In the snows on Caradhras he carried us, and reminded the others that we couldn’t go on. ‘ _It will be the death of the Halflings, Gandalf_ ,’ he said.”

 

Pippin nodded fiercely. “Little ones, that’s what he called us. In Moria he helped us climb across chasms and jumped with both of us when we couldn’t. He took our night watches so often; he sometimes was so exhausted…”

 

The honest enthusiasm in their voices made Faramir smile; this was the Boromir he knew best. Not the grim Captain, the leader in a merciless war, but the protector, the Man who would risk his life to rip a child from the Orcs’ clutches during a night raid across the Anduin; the Man who would take the time to search for some vanished villagers near the crossings of Paros; the older brother who had taught him the sword and protected him best that he could.

 

“Merry, Pippin!” Faramir and the Hobbits had arrived at the now empty guard room and Boromir who had been studying a map, spotted the two Hobbits the very moment the door opened. The two rushed towards him and he squatted down, greeting them with a hug. A bright smile on his face. “You are alive! Pippin… is it possible that you have grown?”

 

Both Hobbits laughed. “That is a long story, Boromir. So much has happened since Amon Hen.”

 

“Then you’ll have to tell me, my friends,” Boromir replied. “It is evening; the City will need her rest as much as anyone. A good time to tell your story..”

 

Half an hour later, the two Halflings sat by the fireplace, happily munching away on some apples. “The Orcs dragged us away when you saved Strider,” Merry was the one to launch into their tale, “and carried us off. Uglúk, their leader, had orders to bring us to Isengard, but some others of the group came from the mountains and Grishnákh was from the East… They argued a lot.” He colorfully described how the Orcs had interacted in their two day crossing of Rohan.

 

“And then the Riders attacked,” Pippin drew in his legs until they rested on the rim of the chair, that was too large for him as he continued the tale. “It was fearsome, all those riders coming out of the dark to strike down the Orcs. We tried to flee into the woods and… I made it.” He looked embarrassed.

 

“What happened?” Boromir asked, seeing Pippin curl up on himself, like he was trying to block out the memories.

 

“I made into the forest, believing Merry right behind me, but all that had followed me was Grishnákh. I did not even notice that Merry was gone until Treebeard stomped Grishnákh.”

 

“What happened to Merry?”

 

“Uglúk had seen me crawl away and yanked me back,” Merry raised his hand with the half-eaten apple to demonstrate how the Uruk-Hai had grabbed him. “I was scared; he held me up by the throat with one hand and drew his blade with other to gut me. But one of the riders saw us and dismounted; he attacked Uglúk fiercely. A lot like you, as a matter of fact. Had I not seen you fight, I’d have been as scared of him as I was of Uglúk.” Merry smiled at the memory, like he could not understand it now, like it was something childish of the past. “He killed Uglúk, cutting him down with the blade. But more Orcs came at us and he said ‘Behind me, little one; they won’t get you.’ I do not know how long the fighting lasted. I picked up an Orc knife and tried to defend myself, not that I was much use. But I was never so grateful for the lessons you gave us.”

 

“Who was it that saved you?” Boromir could see that Merry’s eyes had gone past him, to the wall – staring into the emptiness.

 

“I only leaned that the next morning, not that his name would have meant much to me. Éomer had been the first to realize the Orcs carried captives and he came to save me, the moment he saw what Ugluk was doing. But… we couldn’t find Pippin. We… I thought he had been killed.” Merry shivered, remembering the dark hour he had believed his friend perished during the nightly raid. “Éomer… he understood at once; he knew how it felt. And he said that he and his Men were banished, exiles, but that if I wanted to avenge my friend I could come with them.”

 

“Banished? How did that come about?”

 

“Theoden King, the ruler of Rohan, had fallen under Saruman’s spell, and banished his nephew,” Merry said. “Éomer would still fight for his people, and try to strike at the Hordes of Isengard as hard as he could. And I went with him. During our first night raid on an Uruk-camp I was scared…” Merry had set the apple on the table, where Pippin had snagged it, without Merry noticing. “but I think I put all that you taught me to good use.” Merry looked directly at Boromir, his eyes warming. “By the end of that night I was glad you had insisted to teach me.”

 

He shuffled about in the chair a little, sitting more on the edge.“ The third night after, we saw the Uruks attack the Westfold, burning villages, slaughtering people… Boromir, it was horrible. They killed all that could not get away. The éored intervened and allowed the villagers to flee but there were so many Orcs coming…” Merry kneaded his fingers into each other, to hide that his hands were shaking. “We had to go with the villagers fleeing to Meduseld. Banished or not, Éomer would not leave his people unprotected and thus we escorted them safely to the Golden Hall, where we met Strider, Gandalf and the others. Only he”—he glanced at Pippin—“was not there. But Gandalf said he was safe.”

 

“I was safe with Treebeard and the Ents… I didn’t get myself mixed up in a battle.” Pippin pointed out.

 

“I did not get myself mixed up,” Merry said fiercely. “I volunteered and Éomer accepted me.” He looked back to Boromir. “They mustered everyone to defend Helm’s Deep: old Men, lads and lasses… everyone who could use a sword or bow.” The Hobbit exhaled sharply and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Boromir, I don’t think I can talk about that night yet… It was the scariest thing I ever saw, and strangely I would not have wanted to be elsewhere. I had to see this through, you know?”

 

In the other warrior’s solemn nod, Merry saw understanding and he nudged Pippin to tell of his adventures among the Ents.


	21. The widening gyre

** Chapter 20: The widening gyre **

****

Pippin had just begun to tell them of Treebeard and the Entmoot when they were interrupted by Thoroniâr walking into the guard room, bowing hastily when he saw he had interrupted a meeting of sorts. “Thoroniâr, what is it?” Boromir asked, it did not need the tense posture and hurried stride to warn him, the expression in Thoroniâr's features spoke for itself, the same set jaw and not-quite frown usually appeared on his face when something unexpected happened at the most inappropriate times, be it a night raid over Anduin or a messenger from the Noble Houses insisting on seeing the Steward in the dead of night.

 

“A rider is approaching the City Gate, my Lord – the lookout spotted him. It’s hard to tell in the moonlight, but they are sure he is Haradrim and astride a Nazgul steed; might be a messenger of sorts,” Thoroniâr reported at once.

 

Boromir got to his feet. The Black Lands sometimes would parlay, usually to make demands and sometimes utter threats to back the demands up, but that did not mean they should shoot the messenger on sight. “Thoroniâr, have someone send for the Lord Aragorn, and ask him to come to the Gate. Merry, find Éomer and ask him to come down as well. And send a messenger to the Undercity and find Prince Kíli. This will concern all of us.”

 

“Why would the Haradrim send a messenger?” Faramir asked as they hastened down towards the shattered Gate of the first wall. “You slew their King up on the second ring, but I doubt it is simply because they want his body back.”

 

“Boromir killed the King of the Haradrim?” Aragorn had caught up to them, walking with them down the cleared road through the scorched first ring.

 

“He led the storm on the second ring,” Boromir said simply. “We fought each other and he lost. But the Haradrim are not the Easterlings. If it was one of them, I’d expect either a challenge by Shakurán’s twin or his sword…” his voice trailing off as they reached the smashed lower gate and he could see the rider that came slowly towards the city, Boromir's mind assessing at once what he was dealing with.

 

“Nay, he definitely is Haradrim,” The Aragorn gazed past the ruined Gate towards the rider who approached the City on the Pelennor.

 

“How can you be sure?” Boromir narrowed his eyes, staring out into the darkness. The Moon stood high in the skies, glittering now and then on the man’s armor, but Boromir saw hardly enough to judge, contrary to Aragorn, who had the keen eyes of a Ranger.

 

“Agreed, the helmet is definitely Haradrim,” Faramir said calmly, “but the way he sits on the horse is all wrong. He did not learn to ride in their steppes.”

 

“Could he be one of their sons that were brought to the Black Land as a child?” Aragorn asked in return..

 

“Then he’d be wearing the black Morgul Armor,” Faramir said, pointing out towards the rider. “and there again… golden scale armor. Definitely a Haradrim.”

 

Boromir shook his head, he could hardly see a flash of light glittering on the rider's helmet, but would be unable to tell any color or shape of the armor the stranger wore. “Is he armed?” he asked them still. Aragorn stood a pace beside him on a piece of the broken gate arch, using it as a vantage point, while Faramir had squatted down right beside it, with his sage-colored cloak he was hardly to be seen against the darkness. Boromir couldn't help but notice how both Rangers had at once fallen into familiar tactics – one being the obvious target, the other skulking in the shadows and the bad surprise for anyone stupid enough to take the bait. His brother had scarcely met Aragorn but they already worked together like they knew each other.

 

“No,” it was Aragorn who answered the question, only moments before heavier steps behind them heralded the arrival of Éomer. “he has neither a lance, nor does he wear any blade on his back.”

 

“A wounded survivor maybe?” Faramir suggested in a hush. “The way he leans forward and uses his hand to support himself – he's either exhausted or wounded, possibly both.”

 

They probably could go on comfortably exchanged their observations about the rider, Boromir thought. He saw the wry glance Éomer cast to him, before the Rohirrim warrior gazed back out again. “The horse is tired,” he said, “and he is not forcing it to run; he is careful with it. He also rides bareback.”

 

When the rider was closer but still at a position that the archers on the walls could easily aim at him, Boromir called out: “Haradrim! What brings you to the Gates of this City?” He spoke in Westron and then repeated the words in their Haradic tongue. A messenger of the Black Lands would speak the tongue of the west, but Boromir had encountered Haradrim who did not speak anything but their own language and the Dark Tongue and Faramir's guess that this was no parley but a wounded survivor had some, if unlikely, merit.

 

The rider stopped the horse, gently nudging it to hold its walk. “Lord Boromir?” he asked. “Is that you, Captain?” With one fluid move, he removed his helmet and dismounted the huge black horse.

 

“Anarion?” Heedless for his own safety, Boromir left the broken Gate and approached the Man who stood beside the horse, one hand grasping the animals withers. Boromir noticed a strain in his posture, like he was trying to ease off on his left side. He could see the Haradrim armor and cloak, along with wounds and bruises, covering arms and hands; a gory gash near the throat, and a few more bruises there as well. The Man looked like he was ready to drop.

 

“Anarion… it is you.” Boromir kept his voice down as he spoke; it was a force of habit. He was dealing with someone returning from the Shadowed lands, he might have someone tracking him, even bring direct danger with him. Sometimes a last warning could only be given in a whisper, moments before the meeting with a surviving friend turned into a deathly trap. Still Boromir walked up close to Anarion, knowing all too well how horrible the distrust of one's own comrades felt, when one had just escaped the shadowed lands. It was a trust he had in all his men, even if it had earned him deadly danger in the past and might again, he had sent them into the shadow and he  would welcome those who made it back, danger or not.  Are Frodo and Sam with you?” he asked, softly, barely above a whisper.

 

Anarion's gaze went past Boromir, like he was avoiding him before he averted his eyes, looking down. “No, my Lord. We had to split up after I was injured. I stayed behind to draw off the Orcs.” Slowly he let go of his hold on the horse’s back and went to one knee before Boromir, head bowed down. “I failed the mission you entrusted me with.”

 

“Nay.” Boromir grasped the younger Man’s shoulders and pulled him up, he saw the wince when the movement was too fast, Anarion must be much more injured then he let on. “You did not fail. You went as far as you could, more was never asked of you.” Even in the pale moonlight, that did not create much more but a semi-darkness, Boromir could see the traces on the younger man, cuts and bruises wherever the armor did not cover, a fingers-shaped bruise at the throat, that had to stem from a stranglehold, scratches of Orc-claws, and even the fact that he was wearing a Haradrim armor, bespoke a lot of what Anarion must have been through. But there was something else, something that went beyond the physical marks, it was the way Anarion tensed when touched, avoided looking up and the slight tremor in his arms and shoulders now that he was standing again – Boromir knew those signs, he had experienced each of them himself, after his own escape from the dungeons of Minas Morgul.

 

“I got them over the Mountains, Captain... I wish I could have brought them further,” Anarion said, his voice still low. “But I could only buy them some more time, by keeping the Orcs chasing after me.”

 

Again Boromir noticed how Anarion looked past him, avoiding his gaze... or... another thought came to him, one that he did pray was not true. He gently nudged Anarion to look up, even as their eyes nearly directly met, there was no recognition and no reaction, Boromir saw the moonlight reflected in unfocused greyish-green irises. “What did they do to you?” The last doubt that Anarion had been captured, was gone this moment. There was only one explanation for his shape, the injuries and the sightless eyes... and one Boromir hated to think of.

 

Anarion had stepped back, physically retreating towards the horse, creating a distance between himself and Boromir, like embarrassed, his shoulders hunched, though he did not fully turn away, his eyes going past Boromir, never truly meeting his gaze, and Boromir felt the hair on his arms and neck rise when he realized, that these eyes were now shrouded in darkness. “The usual, Captain: the dance in the Mountains of Shadow, a few rounds of Orc hospitality, and some fun when the Haradrim tried to pull rank on the Orcs. I got away in the chaos.”

 

His voice was steady, and Boromir respected the younger soldier’s wish to present a strong façade, to not break under what he had been through. How he had made it back here, in his shape, bespoke his strength. “Let’s go back to the City, Anarion. There is no need to stay out here,” he said.

 

“Of course, Captain.” Anarion put his hand back on the back of the horse. “Tarkiz il menûr.” His voice was soft and gentle as he commanded the large animal, which began to walk slowly towards the Gate, serving as a guide.

 

Boromir slowed his step to make it easier on the young soldier. Blinded… He had not noticed at first, but now had realized what must have happened to the Ranger. He knew it would be cruel to force Anarion to speak of this before all the other war leaders, so he made no direct mention of it. “How did you come by this steed?” Boromir asked, as they approached the waiting group.

 

“We met by the river, near Amen Ford,” Anarion said, patting the beast affectionately, “and helped each other out. I would not have known I was near the ford had he not met me.”

 

“You freed this horse?” Éomer had approached them, careful to not startle the mighty beast.

 

Anarion tilted his head slightly, listening to the new voice that had come from the left. He did not know the speaker but there was a strangely familiar lilt to the voice. “Freed would be saying too much,” Anarion replied, trying to place the person that had spoken to him. He could hear heavy steps, armored boots on crumbly stone and the soft jingle of armor as the speaker came closer, a warrior he guessed. . “I removed saddle and bridle when we met and he seemed willing to carry me the rest of the way.”

 

“’Tis no wonder he would chose you as a friend,” Éomer said. “Years ago the Black Land stole horses from Rohan – some of our best and most noble horses were taken. He is one of them.”

 

“You are from Rohan.” Anarion knew he should have noticed the accent at once; the Rohirrim had a very distinct way of speaking Westron that came through their mother tongue. Hailing from Northern Gondor, Anarion knew the accent well, the strange emphasis on the vowels, the voice rising at the end of a question and the precise way all consonants were spoken, even clustered ones. It made for an interesting melody when applied to Westron. This one was more fluent in the western tongue than others Anarion had met, he had little in terms of the accent, though the foreign way he used intonation remained. “Then he should go back to you, returned to his home on the plains.”

 

Éomer laughed. “I could not order him to, even if I wanted. He has chosen you, it seems.”

 

While Éomer had paid attention to the horse, Boromir had stepped to Aragorn and Gandalf. The Wizard must have arrived after Boromir had left the gate to meet Anarion, and he still seemed to have a knack to appear where he had not been called to. “Anarion is the Ranger I send with Frodo and Sam,” he said in a hushed voice.

 

“Then we will need to hear all he can say,” Gandalf said firmly, “and hear it quick. I fear it is ill tidings he may bear.”

 

Boromir silently agreed. They made their way back to the Citadel; Boromir was not surprised to see Faramir use the chance to speak a few words to Anarion while they walked. The Ranger had been one of his men and observant as he was, Faramir had picked up on the blindness of the Man faster than any other, save Aragorn maybe.

 

TRB

 

“We split up near the Khadach-zug-dhur, the path of ashen death.” Seated with them in the guard room, Anarion gave his account of the events that had transpired since he and the Halflings had crossed the River. They had made it across the mountains through several small passes in the range leagues south of Minas Morgul, using an ancient pass-road across the mountains for the last leg of their journey, before they had run into several encounters with Orc troops that had led them to finally splitting up.

 

“So they were already on the eastern side of the mountains,” Aragorn observed, studying the young man sitting opposite of him at the table. He had not failed to notice that Anarion had slightly relaxed when they had entered this room he was on familiar grounds, or at least at a place he deemed safe. It had taken Aragorn only one glance in the clear light of the room to notice the traces on Anarion's face. To the untrained eye they might not be visible, but the inflamed skin beside the eyes, the singed eyebrows and eyelashes and the unfocused gaze told the healer at once what had been done to the young Ranger. “Somewhere at the thorn of Nurn, the southern edge of Gorgoroth. The Enemy was unaware of them?” Aragorn continued the questions in a light, friendly tone; there was no need to put pressure on Anarion.

 

“As far as I can tell. They thought that an Elven Warrior was haunting their border,” Anarion confirmed, he had begun to place the different voices in directions, mapping them to the room. Focusing on them and the room helped him to keep a distance between his memories and the answers he had to provide. “They kept asking about him. But they were waiting for someone else to come and take care of the full interrogation.” He spoke of his captivity in detached words, keeping a distance between himself and the events.

 

Boromir understood why, hearing Anarion's voice, the painful detachment, the audible wall he built between himself and the memories was enough to reawaken some of Boromir's own echoes. There was no way to truly wall off the fear, the pain... the shame, that would claw at the mind form the darkness, no way to truly forget the degradation, other to wall it off and ignore this part of one’s own mind as much as possible. Anarion tried to keep up a strong soldier's facade, to pretend that he was alright, and he was remarkably good at it, though he could not fool them. The blinding was only the most pronounced mark on him; some of the scars he received were not visible ones. Boromir knew all too well what sick games Orcs played with their captives. “You did well, you kept them off their tracks while they were busy chasing you, Anarion,” he said.

 

“Did they get anything from you regarding Frodo or his errand?” Gandalf asked. “What did you tell them?”

 

Aragorn silenced the Wizard with a gesture of his hand. “Anarion,” he spoke in much calmer, less aggressive tones, casting a warning glance at Gandalf. He understood that the old wizard was worried, that he feared the answer that might come, that the enemy would have learned of Frodo and the Ring, but putting the young soldier on the defensive would not help here. , “no one believes it a fault if you broke,” Aragorn had no words to truly express this, no one could hold out under the tortures Mordor could device, and no one should be expected to. But it was easy enough to see that Anarion believed he had failed in some way. “And I am loath to make you recall all that happened… but we need to know what the Enemy knows.”

 

Anarion's blinded gaze went to the Man whom he did not know, had never met, but who seemed to hold command now. He could not look at him but he it was clear from whence the voice had come. A part of him was insecure as to who this stranger was, but from what little he had been able to gather while being led here, he could only assume he was of even rank with Lord Boromir, if not outright in command here. It was confusing, but Anarion knew it was not his place to question. “I did not know their errand, my Lord,” he responded politely, there was an unspoken authority in the stranger's voice that demanded respect. “I never knew Frodo’s task, or his destination. He asked me to bring him across the Mountains of Shadow on a route as inconspicuous as possible, and this I did. The Orcs never asked about them either; they wanted the Elven warrior they believed to be running loose in their area.”

 

Boromir saw the sharp glances Aragorn, Éomer and Gandalf cast him, Gandalf's gaze was stern, Aragorn's eyes widened slightly in disbelief while Éomer's was openly outraged. That he had sent someone to his death, to torture, not knowing why he had to face such horrors, did not sit well with them. It was the hardest part of leading men into this kind of war: a commander had to be willing to send them to their deaths, to send them into deadly traps fully knowing what would happen; he had to be willing to make those sacrifices to win the battles this war threw at the land. And while it had pained him each time had had been forced to make such a decision, he knew his men had understood and accepted the deadly risks. It was their opinion, their acceptance that mattered, not what others thought. “How did you escape, Anarion?” he returned to the conversation. The sooner they had heard all they needed to, the sooner Anarion would be able to rest.

 

“With the armies flooding back from the battlefield, chaos ensued. There were no orders from Minas Morgul, and the Orcs were speaking of Number One being killed.” Anarion recounted the events that had led to his escape. “The last time I overheard some of them talk, there was word that Number Two, meaning the second Nazgûl Lord Khamûl, had taken command in Minas Morgul and that Idrákhan had been named Marshal of Udûn to whip the legions back into shape.”

 

“That is not good,” Aragorn said. “They are regrouping quickly. Boromir, what do you know on this new Captain?”

 

“Idrákhan?” Boromir rose from his chair, walking over to the fireplace. The name invoked the picture of an Easterling Warrior with wild dark hair and eyes that seemed to laugh when he was fighting, standing on the broken bridges near Pardos, still standing strong in spite of wounds and exhaustion. _I was sent to punish the Haradrim for their reluctance in sending troops to Mordor, you are here to punish the Haradrim for sending troops against Ithilien, you defeated me, I will leave the Haradrim to you, Boromir. But when you punish them, you punish them for Mordor as well and that is crazy enough for of us to laugh._

 

Boromir leaned against the wall, his eyes surveying the table. Aragorn and Gandalf were seated side by side, Faramir had chosen the opposite side where Anarion still sat. Boromir did not want to see two 'sides' in this room, they were allies, they had to be, even as in this moment the unseen line signified those who knew the enemy, and those who did not.  “Tough, capable, a strategist.” He summed it up. “If Shakurán was the blunt club, he is the dancing blade; honorable, as far as that can be said of an Easterling. If we go up against him, expect cunning strategies, monsters and a few nasty surprises where you least need them.” Boromir had fought that Man before, and he almost liked the intricate strategies Idrakhan used to employ, watching his plans unfold was like studying a masterpiece of art. “If he was raised Marshal of Udûn, he’ll have to muster and order half of Gorogorth, which will take him at least a week…”

 

“And keeps the full might of Sauron’s armies between Frodo and Mount Doom,” Gandalf pointed out. “It will be his death.”

 

“No.” Aragorn stood up. “Frodo needs time and a chance to cross the Plains of Gorgoroth undetected. Coming from the edge of Nurn, he has a long way to go. We need to empty Mordor and draw out Sauron’s army, keep his Eye fixed on us.”

 

“He still fears us.” Boromir looked to Aragorn who stood opposite of him, their eyes met and  suddenly Boromir understood, there truly was only one way to keep the Eye occupied, to have  Sauron busy with something else, and it meant playing towards his fears. Boromir had never assumed that Sauron truly had fears, but there was one fear that manifested in the very person of Thorongil, a fear they could use against the enemy. . “He fears you, he fears to see Men united under one banner. If we muster all the fighters we can and march on Dargorlad… we will play his fears, the things he remembers.”

 

“March on the Black Gate?” Aragorn felt Boromir's gaze upon him, and he was not surprised any more to see that sparkle of light in the green eyes of the Lord Captain of Gondor. The very idea  he had just voiced was crazy, desperate... and the very thing that just might work. It was exactly the kind of plan he had come to expect from Boromir, and he suddenly felt a wave of warmth, of confidence, together they could create an attack, a diversion so real and deadly that Sauron would have no chance but buying it. “He will believe we mean it – he will believe that we believe we can win.”

 

“But we can’t,” Éomer said. “We cannot hope to gain victory through strength of arms. Not with double the armies we still have.”

 

“It’s a bait,” Kili said to him, “make him think we are the main threat… that maybe even one of us”—he inclined his head towards Aragorn and Boromir—“might yet have the Ring. And for that prize he will pour down all his armies right upon us.”

 

Aragorn walked to the map of Mordor at the wall, pointing out the direction the enemy armies would move towards the Black gate. “While Frodo can approach Orodruin unnoticed.” His hand lightly traced over the plains of Gorgoroth, emphasizing the plan they had just sketched out. With all the armies of Mordor sent to Morannon, the plains would be empty. There was only one detail left... one thing they needed to do – to convince Sauron the Ring was in their hands. Aragorn's pulse raced, he had despised himself for Isildur's weakness for most of his life – and Sauron, like everyone else believed in that weakness, he would believe what befitted his preconceptions. Turning around Aragorn found that Boromir had joined him at the map. . “Boromir, you said the Palantír of this City was still in existence? Can you lead me there?”

 

“What are you planning, Aragorn?” Gandalf asked, his sidelong glance shrewdly assessing Aragorn keenly.

 

“Give Sauron a bait he can’t refuse to take,” Aragorn told him. “Boromir, bring me there – I will have need of you. Faramir and Éomer need to see to it that the armies will be ready to march by morning. It is a three days march to the Black Gates.” He looked at the group assembled. “Kili?”

 

The dwarven prince had risen as well, his eyes casting an approving glance at Boromir and Aragorn, and a grim smile curled his lips. “I’ll have my people ready to march as well.”

 

TRB

 

Opening the door to the King’s tower again, Boromir could not help but feel a sense of dread rise inside him. “I’d prefer to face half of Idrákhan’s hordes alone and only with my sword in hand, instead of using that thing,” he grumbled, pushing the door open.

 

“You prefer the battle, with your sword drawn in the sunlight,” Aragorn replied, “but some battles can’t be won that way. You do respect this Easterling Captain, don’t you?”

 

“Aye,” Boromir confirmed. “He is tough – brutal, even – cunning and a strategist like there are few these days. He keeps his word when he gives it and when he is not forced to to otherwise. I like to think he hates it when forced to break it by those who rule the Black Lands.”

 

“You have a strange way of speaking of the Enemy.” Aragorn noticed. He had observed this before, but not as strongly, he also was aware that Boromir had seen to it that the Enemy field commander – Shakurán – had been buried on a lone height before the walls. An odd gesture of respect, that Aragorn had yet to understand.

 

Boromir shrugged. “Twenty years of war, Thorongil – twenty years of fighting along that accursed border, twenty years of learning that the enemy you face can be a monster or just as much a man as you are. And Men like Shakurán or Idrákhan… their loyalty and duty is no less than that of our people: they fight for their land, their oaths, their people, honoring the vows and allegiances of their fathers, living their lives far from the land of their birth. I wonder what their path would have been had the Shadow not claimed them…” He stopped, turning to Aragorn. “And I will fight them, and kill them and show as little mercy as they’d give me, but I will still respect them for the warriors they are.”

 

“Thorongil… you keep calling me by that name,” Aragorn said, steering away from the topic. He did not know how Boromir found it in his heart to respect the most hardened, most dangerous men under the Shadow’s command, but he would admit that there were some parallels between both sides – Boromir, too, had been hardened and shaped by a war that stretched on for too long. “Why? You know it was a name I assumed.”

 

“Maybe I do because it is the name I first knew you under; maybe because it is the name of a Man, of a great warrior, I heard stories about for most of my life; a great warrior that was rumored to be the heir to the throne. Maybe I still call you Thorongil because it is the name of the Man that I hoped would return and aid us, when I was still young enough to not know any better.”

 

They ducked under the archway of the door and entered the circular room atop the tower. Again it lay in shadow, with only the pale moonlight illuminating the dark windows overlooking the silent city. The room and the stone table with the covered Palantîr were; unchanged from the time Boromir had last seen it, yet the shade of his father seemed to linger over the place. Why was it that he could nearly feel the presence of the old man in this hall? “Are you sure you want to do this, Aragorn?” he asked, worried what it might do to the Man.

 

Aragorn shook his head, bemused. “A complex riddle you are, Boromir of Gondor. You despise me, because you feel I let your people down in the long years of their war, yet you would protect me from danger at the same instant.” He straightened up, drawing himself to his full height. “It needs to be done, Boromir. When I speak the words ‘Leithio nin,’ you will smash the Palantír.”

 

“Destroy it? Why?” Boromir asked.

 

“To make the Enemy believe I wield a power too great for the Stone to endure,” Aragorn said. “I trust you with my life, Boromir. I know you will do as I ask and only when I tell you to, no matter what you will see before.”

 

Wordlessly, Boromir took Truefire, confident that the mighty weapon would break even the Palantîr and stood at the other side of the stone table when Aragorn removed the cloth from the Palantír.

 

The midnight blue orb shone in an unearthly light when Aragorn's hand touched it's side, the fire radiance filling the silent chamber. Boromir saw Aragorn's eyes become unfocused, and a frown, the frown of painful concentration creasing his brows. The light become more intense and Boromir could hear a whisper, like a voice or many voices echo through the hall, he could not make out the words, but he _knew_ that voice, it was the same, deep seductive voice that he had always heard when the Ring called for him.

 

“Long have you hunted me, long have I eluded you,” Aragorn's voice was strained, beads of sweat glistening on his brow and temples. “it ends now...”

 

The words startled Boromir, he had no doubt they were true, maybe they were a more open and unguarded statement about his own person than he had ever heard before from Aragorn. So Sauron had come after the line of Kings – it should not be a surprise, the whole reign of the Witch King had been aimed at destroying Arnor. But... but why had Aragorn not sought shelter with those who would have protected him? Why had he eluded Sauron alone, instead of coming home?

 

_Because he does not trust you. To him Men are weak – like you are. He would have had his elf-friend here, if he'd not fear for exposing him to the orb._

 

The whisper was so clear and pronounced it seemed to creep right into Boromir's bones. At another time, mere months before the thought of Aragorn – of any Man really – preferring an elf-friend with him instead of a fellow Man would have enraged Boromir, but now it only found understanding in him. Much like Boromir would feel better if he knew Kíli had his back, Aragorn would prefer his Woodlands friend here, only that Legolas was such a spiritual being that the closeness to the orb might harm him. And like Boromir had learned to respect the strength and honor of other nations, Aragorn might one day see the strength in the world of Men. It was a different strength than the eerie grace and power of the elves, or the stubborn sturdy strength of the dwarves – the strength of Men spread over generations, in continuing where others had to leave off, in standing in the place where their comrades had already perished.

 

“Leithio nin,” Aragorn's voice was hoarse, his chest heaving, his face shining with a sheen of sweat, and his shoulders were shaking.

 

_Look at him – so weak, so pathetic. Unable to control the orb that your brother mastered in one fleeting touch. And you think he is a King? He is nothing compared to you..._

 

Closing both hands around Truefire's cold shaft, Boromir blocked out the whispers, he had once listened to them, nearly heeded them, he would never do it again. With one fell stroke he brought down the axe on the orb, the silversteel blade made to cut steel and stone cutting into the ancient artifact like it was made of wood. The Palantîr cracked with a painful, sickening sound, Boromir felt the shaft of the axe shake in his hands moments before the orb came apart in a glistening light, a wave of light pushing him of his feet and swiping Aragorn against the wall as well. Then darkness claimed the tower again.

 

TRB

 

Éowyn was seated on a stone bench in one of the yards of the Houses of Healing. Her strength was returning since she had been called back from the brink of darkness by Lord Aragorn. Still, she found no sleep once night fell, her heart restless. The night was warm, warmer than she felt a spring night should be and a number of injured soldiers had come to the courtyard to enjoy the nightly air ladden with the smells from the herb gardens. Not far away sat a whole cluster of riders talking softly amongst themselves as to not wake those who slept under the columns of the yard.

 

A movement near the arched gateway caught her attention and she saw her brother quickly entering the courtyard – not to speak to her but to shortly address Ingvar, who had stood a silent guard leaning against a column of the court. Éowyn watched her brother speak to the soldier of the first éored; she was nearly sure that Gimward had not survived the battle. Making the band would be Ingvar’s task.

 

Only after a few more words, her brother left and Ingvar walked to the riders sitting together, his words rose them and they in turn began to wake the sleepers in the court and adjacent rooms – everyone who was able to stand and walk, it seemed. The healers came to protest but she could see him cut them off with a few curt words. “Ingvar!” Éowyn’s short call was enough to bring the tall rider to her side.

 

He bowed. “My Lady?”

 

“What is happening?” Éowyn asked. “My brother brought orders, didn’t he?”

 

“That is true, my Lady. The army is to assemble – we ride at dawn. Everyone who is able to ride and wield a weapon is to go.”

 

So the brief respite they had been given was over, Éowyn thought grimly. She extended a hand towards the rider. “Help me up.”

 

“My Lady, you are too-- ”

 

“Too weak?” Éowyn shook her head. “I am better off than some of those your Men are waking. Now help me up.” She grabbed his offered arm and pulled herself to her feet, inhaling deeply. “You see, I can stand,” she said with a smile for the embarrassed éored leader. “Now, where did they store our weapons and armor?”

 

“My Lady,” two voices called out, as Aelfhild and Brithonin came from one of the other halls into the yard; both were young girls that had been mustered to fight at Helm’s Deep with any other boy or girl able to wield a weapon reasonably well. But even when the slaughter of Helm's Deep was over and the riders from the other ranges of Rohan could reach them, the numbers of their army had been too small to let any warrior go and those who had survived the bloodbath of Helm's Deep had proven to be capable enough. Eówyn's entire troop consisted of such youths. . “They say that we shall ride to the Black Gate itself,” Aelfhild went on, her voice clearly frightened. “They send us to fight the Black Lord. My Lady, how…”

 

Éowyn could easily see the fear in the girls’ eyes; she well understood what they felt and she silenced her with a glance before she could embarrass herself further. “Then we ride on the Black Gate and call judgment on the Evil Lord who brought so much suffering on the world of Men.” When she spoke her voice rang out like a clarion. “Stand tall, Aelfhild – you are a soldier of Rohan, not a frightened peasant.”

 

The girl took heart, as did her companion, albeit Brithonin, Erkenbrand’s daughter, was less prone to show her fears; she had been raised to stronger examples. “Aelfhild, go and wake the others – have them assemble in the main yard outside these halls,” Éowyn said, taking charge of the chaos. “Ingvar, find out where our weapons and armor are stored and what Gondor’s armory can spare in replacements. We shall not befoul these halls by arming here, so have them brought to the main yard. Brithonin, come with me. The army of Rohan rides at dawn.”

 

TRB

 

The dawn of the next morning saw the armies march out of the White City. The riders of Rohan, all Men Gondor could muster, the Dwarves; it was a long column that marched under the King’s banner. Even with an army not expecting much of a return, there were a number of supply carts, camp followers and healers, following with the wagons. The first day they crossed the Pelennor and marched north, along the river banks towards Cair Andos. Moving the entire army across the River at Cair Andos was an undertaking that was going the entire day, but they did not try to speed it. Sauron should see them coming – they were marching openly.

 

The supply caravan was still assembled on the southern riverbank, while the troops and horses were brought across the rushing river. Ferrying all people across the river had been estimated to take a whole day, but after twelve hours only half of the army was across and the exhaustion of boatmen and ferryfolk slowed the transport additionally. Work was busy in this camp: armorers were hastily working at repairs on armor damaged during the last battle; others were making arrow-tips; and the healers were working on whatever preparations could be made for the day the wounded would come streaming in. The supply caravan was naturally the group that would be moved across last, when all the troops were already on the other side.

 

Anarion sat on the ground in the shadow of one of the wains, working on a bundle of arrows. The work was familiar: the Rangers needed so many arrows that most of them learned to make their own. His hands were well acquainted with the task and even when still able to see he had rarely needed to. Around him he heard the noises of the camp, two armorers were working beside the next wain, their hammers ringing out into the warm afternoon sun, their fire smelling stronger and of coal than the smoke from the campfire that carried the sweet smell of burning wood. Carefully, he checked the feathers he had just cut for the arrow, one diagonal cut to shape them ideally for an archer to aim over long distance. Putting the arrow with the finished bundles, he took the next and began the task anew.

 

“You are truly skilled with these.”

 

Anarion tilted his head. The voice was familiar, a deep baritone, pleasant to hear but with a timbre that seemed to resonate more deeply than the voices of Men. “Kili,” he greeted the Dwarf. “Your people are not yet across the river?”

 

“Dwalin had them over an hour ago; Boromir bade me stay until the riders go,” Kili replied and Anarion could hear the slight jingle of armor along with the creaking of leather to the right of himself, the slight shuffle in the air indicated the dwarf had either sat down or squatted down beside him. “He won’t make the crossing himself before nightfall, I guess. I was surprised to see you here, though. They would have sent you to the Houses of Healing.”

 

Anarion barked a laugh. “Most of my injuries are cuts and bruises, a few burns… the traces of Orc affection. And my eyes no healer can fix. So why take up their time? I’d rather do something useful.” He affixed the feathers at the next shaft and cut them with a deft hand. “I can’t fight anymore, Kili, I know that well enough. But I still can make arrows, and the Rangers will need a myriad of them when the battle begins.”

 

“I agree, though Men to sharpen blades and knives are in even shorter supply, with most of the blacksmiths fixing chainmail shirts and hammering out dents in shields.”

 

“That’s why you are here, I guess?” Anarion asked, remembering the Dwarf’s incredible skill with his hands. “To help until the crossing can be made?”

 

“That too. If you want, I can show you.”

 

Anarion arched an eyebrow, a gesture that hurt more than just in the physical way when it tensed the sore skin around his eyes. He felt a small jab each time he did this, but he would not allow himself to be a coward and shy away from anything that had to do with his eyes. “That would be a waste of time; the caravan master has already decreed me unfit to travel on with the rest.” he could not suppress the anger in his voice entirely.

 

“And there won’t be blades to sharpen in Cair Andos and Minas Tirith when we fail to return?” Kili asked. He lightly put a hand on Anarion’s arm, offering guidance if the younger Man was willing to take it.

 

Even as the dwarf meant for the touch to be light, the strong hand alone would have Anarion told that he was speaking to one of the dwarves. Accepting the help Anarion got to his feet and walked with Kíli towards the next wagon. He had memorized his surroundings best that he could and was not afraid to move through the camp. Kili guided him to sit down with the sharpening stone. They began with a dagger, Kili’s hands guiding Anarion’s work, showing him how it was done. Time and again, Anarion was amazed how the Dwarf knew how to guide him, how to teach him. The next dagger he had to do alone, with corrections; then a sword followed, and he began to find the feeling for the sort of skill the sharpening wheel needed, for the pressure he needed to apply, for the sound of the blade on the stone that told him if he was too strong or weak on it, even the smell of the sparks and heating metal became quickly familiar. When Kili handed him an axe next for examination, Anarion was surprised, but used his hands to examine the weapon’s shape. Only twice he felt Kili’s gentle grip, correcting him in his work. “How do you… how do you know…?” He was not quite sure what he wanted to ask, why Kili was helping him, or how the Dwarf knew exactly what help he may need.

 

“The dwarrow who taught me the beginnings of the art when I was still a wee lad was named Narvi,” the Dwarf told him. “He was an old bladesmith, about the age of Thrain. When our people fled the Mountain, he was injured, blinded by the Dragon’s fire. He never let it wear him down; when I met him, he was still a great bladesmith and survivor. It is not that you were blinded, Anarion – it is what you allow it to do to you that counts. You came here to help, knowing what it will mean when we are defeated. You knew and came anyway, accepting what lies ahead.”

 

“I’d rather go down fighting, helping those who fight, and make my stand where they find me than run and hide,” Anarion said fiercely. “Death… death hunts all of us, Kili, and he is the hunter that never fails.”

 

He felt the Dwarf lightly clap his shoulder, a wordless agreement, before Kili called out to someone else. “Beris, over here!” The heavy steps coming close heralded another dwarf, Anarion had already noticed that dwarves walked differently from men when he had first met Kíli but by now he noticed that their feet seemed to make the harder impact with the ground, their natural step heavier and firmer than that of Men.

 

“Anarion, this is Beris son of Bofur; he is our supply master. Beris, Anarion can go with our people.”

 

Anarion heard the jingle of armor and leather as the new Dwarf squatted down. “An arrow maker Kili, gladly. I’ll be happy to have him.”

 

Touched by the Dwarves’ will to allow him to stay, Anarion reached for Kili’s shoulder. He could say where the Dwarf was, there were so many small details that were telling, the breathing, the soft rustle of a cloak and the creaking of leather belonging to the armor, and the very soft rustle of long hair scraping over the leather of a hood at his shoulders. “What about the caravan master?”

 

Beris chuckled. “He can report it to his king, if he wants to. We are allies here, Anarion, not liege men. Come, I’ll show you to our camp – and bring that menacing horse of yours along. It already knows where we are going.”

 

TRB

 

Éowyn led Stormrunner on the swaying barge, gently speaking to the stallion, which was nervous at being forced to enter the barge. It was already dawn and the setting sun graced the river with her fiery light. “That would be the last, my Lady,” Brithonin reported, leading two horses on the barge. One was Aeledher, her own grey gelding, and a white horse  that Éowyn did not know. It was not one of the Rohirric horses, being not quite as tall, but still of a very noble built. She noticed at once the small head adorned with a silver bridle and fine ankles – this horse was a breed from Gondor, a race of horses that descended from Numenór's legendary mares.

 

“Good, it’s already late and the supply caravan needs to ship as well,” she said. “Whose horse is that, Brithonin?”

 

“I do not know, my Lady, but it has stood by the landing for hours now. I think the soldier it belongs to long shipped over and he should miss his horse.”

 

“Then we better bring the noble steed back to the lazy master.” Éowyn laughed softly. “And Brithonin, it is Dernhelm from now on. No my Lady, or titles. Just Dernhelm.”

 

Brithonin answered with a quick salute, acknowledging the orders given, when a man in leather armor, wearing the sage-green cloak of a ranger walked on the barge moments before it could push off the landing. “Mayhap the lazy soldier had to take care of too many things,” he said with a good-natured smile, as he gently stroked the white horse's flank. “and his horse found a valiant defender.”

 

“Lord Faramir.” Éowyn was surprised that the Captain of the Rangers was not yet across the River.

 

“Only Faramir now,” the Ranger replied. “This is not a time for lofty titles…” His eyes held hers and there was a great sadness in them. “How many of your people, of your women and girls, have come to fight for us?”

 

“All that passed muster,” Éowyn told him, “but this is no reason to look at us with pity. When your people gave Eorl the Young permission to dwell on the plains of Rohan, he swore an oath to come to Gondor’s aid whenever called. Now the need is dire and we stand to fulfill the oath of our people. Would you have us do any less?”

 

“Nay,” Faramir replied, “and yet it pains me to see the price your people are paying to fulfill their obligation. Your people are proud, Dernhelm,” he followed her wish to be called by her warrior name, not by any title or rank,  “and lucky to have so many like you.”

 

She smiled at him, leaning against the side of the barge as the ship moved slowly along the ropes that held it on course. “If this war is lost, there will be no safety anywhere, Faramir. There is no miracle to safe us, no Elven High King from legend coming at the head of his army to save us, no ships to come from the west carrying a host like the world has never seen to defeat the darkness. It is up to Men to show their quality, to show we can protect this world. This is a burden and a noble obligation, and we are lucky to have the Men of Numenór to lead us in it.”

 

“You put great trust in my people,” Faramir observed, surprised at her words. “Men have failed against the Shadow before.”

 

Éowyn turned to him, her hands resting on the side of the boat still. “What choice do we have, Faramir? The Elves send two hundred archers to support us in Helm's Deep, they died to a man. The dwarves fighting for you are brave but few in number as well – if we do not stand, who will?”

 

There was a strength in her that Faramir admired, her people were unburdened by the lore of the past, and unburdened by the doubts and shadows of old, they would stand and fight, they could still believe. It was a comforting thought. Silently they stood together as the boat approached the landing, none of the many soldiers knew if they'd come back, or if they were crossing this river for the last time. And here and now, standing with Dernhelm peering ahead across the waters, Faramir found himself at peace with that. They'd stand together to the end.

 

TRB

 

The next day, the army followed the very same road the Haradrim had taken to the Black Gates, riding the long road through Ithilien north towards Morannon. By nightfall they had reached the broken lands before the gates of Mordor. From afar, they could already see the Black Gate’s looming towers. They made camp there that night, knowing the next day they would reach their destination.

 

**Boromir walked among the campfires, the Elven cloak allowing him to pass without arousing attention wherever he came. The morale was tense; few would sleep this night, not with the fires of Mordor blazing at the dark horizon. At some fires the atmosphere was grim, determined with warriors sitting together, ready to ride and die. He knew these Men – Men who had all their life fought at these borders and who knew that each time a man walked into the shadow of these mountains could be the very last. They expected nothing short of death and would make the Enemy work hard for that success. Around other fires, the mood was more subdued, Boromir could see fear in the eyes of many a Man there – hope was failing them rapidly. More than once he stopped at such fires; sometimes a few words could help rebuild morale. He spotted Éomer doing much of the same. The Rohirrim had the much harder task: many of his riders were no soldiers, many were too young, and having come out of Helm’s Deep to ride to war, they did not have the same grim demeanor of the veterans and were much more subdued, fear nagging at them.**

**Boromir saw Éomer stop between two fires to talk to one such young warrior. There was some familiarity between them; someone he knew obviously. What they spoke of he could not tell, but he saw Éomer clap the younger Man’s shoulder, gesturing to follow him as he continued his walk.**

**Continuing on through the camp, he saw the Dwarves, their part of the camp was between the Rohirrim camp and the Rangers camping at the hillside. Kili and Dwalin too walking among them. The spirit was better here: now and then the tune of a song rose from one of the fires. Dwalin and Kili had stopped with a group by a large fire, where a corpulent Dwarf was handing out food. He asked them something and rich laughter along with a few jokes about** sage rang out into the night. When the rolling laughter calmed down, Dwalin nudged Kili slightly, the way the bald warrior looked towards Boromir, he must have spotted his approach swiftly. The younger Dwarf nodded, leaving the fire, but not without asking another one of the group for something. When Kili walked towards Boromir, a song rose behind them – a sad, dark tune, like so many of their songs.

 

_Old grey stone down by the roadside_

_high above, a hawk you hear._

_Autumn’s cold greets the new year,_

_the way back home runs far and wide,_

_running along the rivers side_

_abandoned in the empty years_

_it neither voice nor traveler hears._

_When will the Moon change our tide?_

_The raven's wings so black, dear heart,_

_no curse will turn them white._

_The road will be so long, dear heart_

_we won't be home tonight._

_Dark dank ruin on the mountain,_

_swift falcons high above_

_broken walls and empty fountain._

_The way back home runs far and wide,_

_following the mountain's side,_

_but it is never spoken of._

_Do you know a place to hide?_

_The raven's wings so black, dear heart,_

_no curse will turn them white._

_The road will be so long, dear heart_

_we won't be home tonight._

 

“I’d have asked them for a different song, but we’d have ended with the one of the willow tree,” Kili said as he reached Boromir.

 

Boromir had listened to the Dwarven song echoing out into the night behind them. Knowing the true story of the Willow Tree song, he would not have minded it half as much, but this song held a different fascination. “It is about the lone lands, is it?” He could easily hear the life of wandering, of being alone and without a home in the words, in the sad tune.

 

“Aye.” Kíli's voice softened when he spoke and his eyes warmed as they strayed back to the campfires. “We have been wandering those lands for many years… You have seen them for yourself, Boromir. They inspire songs of that kind.”

 

They walked a bit further and passed a small fire where Éomer and Haleth had sat down. Éomer motioned them over to join them and they followed the invitation. “Your people seem cheerful,” the younger of the two Rohirrim said after a moment of silence.

 

“They are a hard people,” Kili replied. “Tough, fierce, loyal… They laugh and sing, because in the lives they lived, each day could have been the last. They are a wild kind, a special kind… and I couldn’t wish for better friends or fighters by my side to face the end.”

 

“Have your people fought many wars?” Éomer asked. “I know little of your kind, except those who would cross Rohan as travelling workers, smiths and tinkers.”

 

Kili smiled slightly. “I’ve done that too a few times. We had some great battles in the last two hundred years and we have always had our share of trouble with the Orcs – there’s no shortage of them in the lone lands.”

 

Boromir could see that answer was not what Éomer had expected. Two hundred years was his great-grandfather's time and too far away for the Rohirrim to even care and he had never seen the wilds of the North- Boromir too would not have believed how hard and cold the lone lands were, had he not crossed them together with Kíli. It made him think of something he had wished to ask Kíli without ever getting the chance so far.  “During our travels, I have heard bits and pieces of the story how your people reclaimed the Lonely Mountain, Kili,” he said. “You, Bofur, Dwalin… you were with those who did it. But I never heard the full tale.”

 

“It is a long story,” Kili pointed out.

 

“It is a long night,” Éomer responded, settling down comfortably by the fire. “And a good story would shorten it.”

 

_Sitting down as well, Kili looked at the fire, the flames burning brighter, leaning towards him, some of the flickering flames touching his arm, for a moment lost in thought Kíli allowed the flames to dance on his wrist. By now Boromir knew it was not a trick of the light, but it seemed Kíli drew some comfort from the fire's closeness. When he began to speak he told them of the Kingdom under the Mountain and how the Dragon came to destroy it. How Thorin Oakenshield escaped and wandered the world with his people and how he finally called for those willing to risk the journey back. Kili’s words took them along on the journey: to the Shire where they met the burglar, their Hobbit, and how they set out on the road. Boromir already knew the story about the trolls, but he did not mind hearing it a second time and learning what happened after, how they had been hunted by Warg riders right to the gates of Rivendell. For the journey across the mountains and the misadventure in Goblin-town, Kili did not speak of pain or fear – instead, he gave a colorful description of the Goblin King and his fear of Orcrist the Goblin-cleaver. A harrowing flight from the mountain followed, and a further attack by Azog and his Warg riders – a fight where one small Hobbit saved the life of Thorin Oakenshield. His words carried them away to the house of Beorn and the deeps of Mirkwood, to the dungeons of the Elves and to a barrel ride after their Hobbit had rescued them from the cells. They found themselves laughing heartily at these parts, before the journey went on to Lake-town, and finally the desolation of Smaug._

 

When Kili spoke of the Dragon’s gold and the curse that had befallen Thorin, Boromir remembered vividly what the Dwarf had said to him on Amon Hen. Spellbound, he listened to the tale of the Battle of Five Armies and of Thorin’s heroic last stand against Azog the Defiler.

 

“They buried Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and his nephew Fili in a stone grave under the pines on the heights that so long ago had blazed in Smaug’s terrible fire.” Kíli's voice had sunken to a whisper at these words, the first grey light of dawn already rose beyond the clouds.

 

“Your great King died, giving his people back their home,” Haleth said softly. “Is this what will happen here too? Our King dying to give us a chance?”

 

Kili looked at the youth. “No,” he said. “We fight to buy more time. Deep in Mordor, Bilbo’s nephew is trying to finish his mission, and when he succeeds, the Enemy will be finished. He will do it – I know he will. Our Hobbit always came through for us, even when things looked bleakest. And Frodo will too. But we need more time, Haleth. We fight so the world still has a chance.”

 

TRB

 

On the other side of the Black Gates, the night was just as restless. Troops were amassing in the shadow of the towers, legions were made ready, and Orcs were shouting in their shrieking voices. The Man striding up the rampart of the gate had a watchful eye on the proceedings, even while he hurried. Idrakhán was an Easterling, a warrior in his prime; he had served the Dark Lord for longer a life than his face might show and while the news of the defeat before Minas Tirith still rankled, he was all the more itching to get to the field. The dark banner was flying again, and they would march to take the world come morning.

 

The wall was nearly empty, except for a single dark figure, standing motionless in the middle of the mighty battlements. Idrakhán approached until he was ten steps away and dropped to one knee, eyes down, waiting to be acknowledged.

 

 

The voice echoed in his mind like a searing whip. Like others who had long served in the Old City, he was well used to this and did not flinch. He had walked through the magic rites of Minas Morgul without so much as a groan, the black seal engraved on his very bones. Communicating with a Nazgûl was nearly comfortable in comparison.

 

“Fifteen legions have arrived from Gorogorth, along with nine Fists of Olog-hai and a number of trolls – not as many as I would like, but those units are slow moving. We have picked up any surviving Haradrim and swept then into one legion; they will make serviceable auxiliaries still. The Varigians and Eastern troops that could reach us are here, and we are still getting more Orc troops from Gorgoroth. I’ve sent Black and Red Fist back to whip on the stragglers.” His mind went over the list as he spoke, to ensure he did not forget any of the hastily reestablished units.. “We do not have Drakár to support us this time, your Highness.”

 

The last was an address the Easterlings would only give one Nazgul: the very one standing here. Khamûl had been a sorcerer and their greatest king; serving him was the greatest honor that could still be bestowed upon any Easterling house, no matter how high or low.

 

 _You are concerned about this?_ the mind-voice asked. _They do not have our numbers._

 

“Numbers don’t win battles, your Highness. And they have to have something up their sleeve, some surprise we don’t see, or they would not be here. I’d prefer to have monsters or creatures to give them a surprise when needed.” Idrakhán’s eyes went down over the battlement, where he could see the nightly camp of the enemy, arranged in one main line and four to each side. The campfires formed the white tree of Minas Tirith. _Boromir_ , he thought. That was his style: give the enemy something to see and worry about, _tell them I am here and I am ready for you_. The Captain of Gondor was a bold and brave Man. If this was by his design then he had a plan and that plan worried Idrakhán.

 

A gesture from the armored figure before him pointed him to come closer. He followed the invitation and the invisible hand in the dark gauntlet let two pale keys drop into his palm. _Have these sent to your best beast commander to unleash the pale drakes they hold. Two cold drakes, the last of their kind – they will be all that is needed._

 

Surprised but glad, Idrakhán bowed deeply. That was the weapon to break even the most cunning plan the Captain of Gondor could device. “It shall be done immediately, your Highness,” he said, intending to leave, but another gesture of the gloved hand held him back.

 

 

Idrakhán followed the command, kneeling at the feet of the great Nazgul: Khamûl King and Lord of the Easterling Empire. The gloved hand touched his bare head and he felt a searing pain rush through his bones. He needed all his control to not scream out. It was no harm that came to him, but a spell, a seal of power and protection like only the former sorcerer and now Lord of the Nazgul could grant.

 

_In the battle you shall find their leader. You will slay him for me. And you will bring that which he carries to me. To me. To none else._

 

“As you ordered it shall be done, my Lord.” Idrakhán had his instructions; the day to come would see the fall of Gondor once and for all. He rose and strode off the main ramparts; he had a battle to prepare.


	22. Fear behind them, fate before them

** Chapter 21: Fear behind them, Fate before them **

****

The host of the free people had arrived at the Black Gates, going from marching formation to battle grouping. The long column of their marching order fanning out into battle positions. On their right flank the Riders of Rohan formed the long wing, a long slightly looped crescent, that would prove it's terrible effectiveness once their charge began. Boromir saw the long line take shape and he knew once Éomer brought this field of riders down to the vale, the front rank Orcs would wish to have stayed home today.  The center was comprised of mostly Gondorian troops, Swan knights, foot soldiers from Mothrond, Anorien and Lossarnach, along with all that remained of the Tower Guard, Aragorn had command of the center. Faramir was there was well, leading the Rangers and every other archer they had been able to muster. They were the link between the center and the left wing, much as the dwarves were the same between the right wing and the riders. Boromir was on the left wing of the formation, with the remaining Border-troops, Ithilien warriors and all those who had been mustered along the river prior to the battle of Osgiliath. Not that he actually hoped to keep any semblance of strategy going through the first encounters – in these grounds the battle would become fractured easily, which was the reason the most seasoned commanders had been split up over a wide area, to not lose coordination of the field prematurely. Still it felt _wrong_ to not have Kíli and Faramir with him, not knowing them at his back. Still he could feel their presence like they were with him, Faramir's determination and Kíli's steadfast courage still reached him, even as they were on other ends of the field.

 

Standing on the broken hillside, Boromir hardly heard Aragorn’s speech to the armies, though his voice carried far enough for them all. It was a good speech all in all – something to rouse the men and carry them into the battle to come – yet Boromir had no ears for it. Deep inside, behind the carefully guarded mask of the Captain, Boromir was exhausted. Not sleeping the previous night had spared him another night of nightmares, for there was no sleep left for him that was not disrupted by the whispers. The dreams of the Ring had haunted every night for longer than he cared to admit, and without the steadfast support of his brothers, he’d have broken weeks before. He was tired beyond the physical exhaustion of the past battles, he was exhausted in his soul, weary in ways he could not name and he was glad soon it would all be over. Here and now things would find an end, if through the destruction of the Ring or through his own demise – and probably both.

 

From afar he watched how Aragorn beheaded the Mouth of Sauron, and for the first time he truly cheered the King on – this was the way to deal with Sauron’s demands. The wings of the Black Gate swung open fully and the host of the Dark Lands charged at the field. The battle had begun.

 

The first waves of battle were Orcs; myriads of them poured out of the Black Gate. Their first ranks were cut down by the archers, but more came, no matter how many of them were shot; there was no end to them. Boromir called his men to advance, and they caught the Orcs storming for the heart of the army in the flank, much like the Rohirrim did on the other side. The clash of the armies was fierce: a thunder of steel and bodies, death and only the beginning of the end. Boromir’s blade ate its way through the ranks of Orcs like a sickle reaping ears. With them hopelessly outnumbered, strength lay in attack, in relentlessly pushing the enemy. Boromir was the first to advance, each attack blending into the next, never stopping, never ceasing, always moving forward, over bodies freshly cut down, , the sword finding one enemy after the next, always stabbing, slashing, always attacking and pressing forward. To his left he knew Veryan of Dol Amroth covered his flank, as swift and deadly as always. He could not tell how long they had been fighting like this, against the endless Horde of Orcs, the endless black wave that drove against them with the will and fear of the Nazgul, but the warmth of spring sun was bathing the field when he first saw a change in the enemy's attack formation.

 

Boromir found himself standing on one of the foothills east of the Black Gate and the Orcs were pulling back for the first time in the day. Their black masses flooding back towards the towers of the Black Gate. He knew that could only mean the Enemy was regrouping. “Close ranks!” he bellowed, the foothill was a good point to take on the next attack. The troops responded with the speed he was used to expect from them. Though he spotted a number of Rangers and other foot soldiers that had become separated from the center and regrouped with them now. Swiftly he his eyes strayed to the center of the field. Their army had splintered into several groups, he could see that but there was little chance to reunite with them now, there was too much ground between them and the battered center, and only one glance across the field on the other flank made Boromir wince. The Rohirrim formations were hardly worth being called that any more. He hoped Éomer would get them back together quickly.

 

“I’d bet they’ll break out the Olog-hai and Haradrim next, Captain.” Veryan’s face was hidden under the swan helmet he wore, but Boromir could hear the grim humor in the Man’s voice. They had come here without hopes or illusions and there was a brutal satisfaction in the price they’d extract from Sauron for killing them.

 

“They just wanted to clean out the barracks, because they’ll breed Uruk-hai the next time,” Boromir joked back, just as grimly. He heard some laughter among the ranks of his Men, and felt a surge of pride. These were Gondor’s best sons, those who would walk into the heart of the Shadow for her and could still laugh at the danger.

 

It was not Haradrim that took the field, but Easterlings. Their black scale armors, the Morgul armor with the tabard of the blood flame, sent a shiver down Boromir’s spine. There came the best the Black Lands had to offer, and they’d fight to their deaths.

 

TRB

 

Idrakhán deftly jumped on the back of the winged terror that the Varigian rider had held ready for him. Two more Varigians were with him, but only to keep the beast alive – hewould need it quickly again once his task was done. The Easterling had been itching to take to the field, watching the Orcs battle it out with the Gondorians mindlessly was always boring to watch, but at least it had been punctuated with the amusement of figuring out what leader was deployed on what wing of the of the so called 'Alliance of free people'.  When they swooped down on the field where the Easterlings began to attack the Gondorian forces, the Varigian Khan pointed towards one of the smaller groups, clustered on one of the lower foothills. “Look there, it’s their damned Numenóran King. Get me my arrows and we’ll shorten the war a little.”

 

“No, Brazukh Khan,” Idrakhán said sharply. “You committed two crimes in just one breath: you called this Ranger a King, I will forgive you that, he has conducted himself better than his lousy bloodline would have one believe, and you suggested making him a martyr to our treachery, which I can't tolerate. No, the enemy needs to see him defeated, humbled, crushed in single combat.” He could see that the King was trying to reach one of the faltering groups of his smashed center and thus had exposed himself. Stupid, stupid,  a noble move on his part, trying to aid his faltering troops but a big mistake. “Set me down,” the Easterling ordered.

 

The Fell Beast swooped down, naked wings flapping and whirling in the air, outstretched claws ready to grasp, the creature's high pitched shriek causing Aragorn’s horse to panic; he just managed to jump off before the animal cantered off in fear.  Aragorn drew his sword, Anduril glowing in the light of the spring day, he fully expected to be faced with a Nazgûl, he had wondered why the Enemy did hold his most dreadful weapon back. But instead he saw a fully living figure dismount from the winged horror with casual ease. A man, not quite as tall as Aragorn himself, wearing the black scale mail armor like so many other soldiers of the Enemy. He wore no helmet, his face was what maybe shook Aragorn more than the casual poise with which he drew his blade. The face was regular, lean, edged features, dark eyes with only the tiniest hint of a slant and an intelligent, watchful expression – this was not a monster, but a man, a person... not so different from Aragorn himself and yet set to kill him. “Did the Orcs slay your Royal Guard or did you leave them… oh, I forgot you don’t have one yet.”

 

“I do not need guards,” Aragorn ignored the mockery; entirely, it was easy to see that the Easterling was trying to provoke him. He raised Anduril in a guarded stance, circling his opponent. “Contrary to your Masters I fight my own battles.” He watched the Easterling's movements match his, the man was moving with the deft grace of a prowling cat, the long curved blade in one hand.

 

“Courage, good.” The answer was accompanied by an almost eager smile. “I had hoped for some good fight.”

 

Their blades touched, it was no more than one swift attack and an equally swift parry, while they were still circling each other, testing the waters. “You know who I am,” Aragorn kept his eyes trained on his adversary, he could sense something from him – a shadow, like a shroud of darkness enveloping the Easterling entirely, yet it was not encumbering him, felt almost natural to him. “Who are you?”

 

“Idrakhán,” the Easterling advanced, his blade coming around in a whirl, like the song of the blade itself was the name he wished to give.

 

Aragorn parried the attacks with ease, he needed the Elven forms he had learned in his youth to match the speed the other warrior seemed to prefer in his fighting. He could see the first traces of a style in him, swiftness over strength and guile over straight out fighting. So this was the Enemy leader Boromir had spoken of, Idrakhán. Aragorn was far from underestimating the Easterling Captain. Any warrior who won that much of Boromir’s regard while being the enemy had to be supremely dangerous. Aragorn feigned an attack against the legs, another false jab towards the side and with one fluid turn caught Idrakhán's curved blade with Anduril's guard. “What makes a proud warrior serve the Shadow?” he asked, his voice hard. “Slaughtering his fellow Men? Is that all you wish to live for?”

 

 The Easterling broke the block in one fluid move, pushing Aragorn back. “Fellow men? I'd not call your kin that.” he spat; his attacks came like a hailstorm, with a speed and strength that forced Aragorn to block and dodge swiftly. “We are the true children of Middle-Earth, until your accursed kin returned from across the sea after centuries of crawling at the Elves' feet. And we will retake our world. _Il mantai chenur!”_

 

 _Il mantai chenur!_ The words sent an icy shiver down Aragorn's spine. ‘ _For the honor of the Great_ _Lord_ ,’ was too harmless a translation for what was a call upon Morgoth himself, a call that no mortal tongue had dared utter in at least an age. He saw something, like a shadow swirling around the Easterling and then his enemy advanced anew, his attacks unceasing, mercilessly battering at Aragorn's defences. Had he had not been trained by the Elves, he would hardly have lasted through this storm. Idrakhán was more than dangerous – he was one of the best swordsmen he had ever encountered and he had been strengthened by something of the Shadow. Aragorn hardly dared to think of it, dark whispers of the blessings Melkor worship was said to bestow on devout followers were conveyed in the writings of ancient Numenór. But Aragorn had hoped that with the sinking of the Island the knowledge of such practice had died, but he clearly had been wrong.

 

Focusing his thoughts inward, he let go of his fear and of his anger for his enemy. Calm and composed he stepped into the line of the next attack and he caught the enemy’s blade in a block, Anduril sliding down the curved sword to hit the guard, Aragorn broke the struggle of strength with all the power he had, pushing as hard at his opponent, Idrakhán stumbled backwards, losing his momentum

 

Aragorn pushed past his faltering guard with the next attack and managed to land one hard hit at his right shoulder. He would have expected bones to break under the shattered shoulder armor, the healer in him knew the bones had to be smashed, but when Idrakhán dodged the next hit and parried a third, he saw that the man moved as easily as before. Something dark and unnatural kept him at his feet, it seemed like he did not feel any pain or exhaustion. Again he stormed against Aragorn, their swords clashing, metal shrieking under the strain, as the blades made contact with each other, fiery sparks flying from the tormented metal.

 

Their duel drew out over the back of the hill, vaguely Aragorn was aware that the battle was still commencing in some distance, though the Easterlings were effectively cutting the Gondorians off this area of the field. He had caught glimpses of two smaller units trying to break through to them, but he could not dare to break his focus from the duel he was encumbered in. Right here and now all was locked in his own fight against Idrakhán. Aragorn pushed his opponent back again, towards where the troll corpses from the first wave were piling up, the Easterling showed a flaw in his cover and Aragorn made use of it, intending to drive the blade through the Man, but with lightning speed the Easterling dodged and in one fierce strike smashed the sword from Aragorn’s hand. Anduril spun through the air and landed on the ground twenty steps away. Quickly, he drew his Elven dagger – he knew his chances had just dropped, this was it. Only armed with a dagger against one of the most dangerous foes he had ever encountered.

 

A deep calm settled upon Aragorn, even if he fell, and he had no doubt the Easterling would make a swift end, this battle was not lost. Boromir and Faramir, they would keep fighting, they had been fighting for all their lives and they would continue no matter what happened here. They would see this through to the end, until Frodo could finish his task. Aragorn trusted them, he knew the task in the best possible hands, and he would go down fighting. Bringing up the dagger he lunged forward, but found his attack swiftly dodged.  Idrakhán ceased to attack for a moment and Aragorn heard the maybe most unlikely noise for such a moment – the Easterling laughed, a deep, amused, rich laugh, that felt like something no evil being should be able to voice. 

 

“Not so easy, King, I’ll see you dead in my own time.” Idrakhán picked up the shield of a dead battle troll and tossed it; it hit Aragorn squarely, nailing him to the ground, chest and both arms trapped under the heavy metal that was ground into the bloody earth. Aragorn tried to free himself, pushing against the dirty steel, but he felt something dark, like an icy magic in the metal that weighed him down to the ground. His sword drawn, the Easterling approached, and Aragorn knew the Man would behead him. There was no mercy in this enemy, and Aragorn wished he could say there was no humanity in him either. But this was maybe the greatest, vilest triumph of the Shadow – having claimed these men to serve the dark with all the strength and capability Men were able to provide. He had debated the question of what strength might be found in the world of Men for nearly all his life and here he saw the answer – he wished he had been able to see that strength earlier, see it in his friends, instead of glimpsing it in an enemy. Idrakhán stood beside him, eyes cool, unmoved.  Aragorn met his gaze evenly, daring him to do his worst.

 

“Oh no, you won’t!” Several fighters had broken through the Easterling ranks quickly fanning out uphill. Idrakhán’s sword swiping down at Aragorn was blocked by Thoroniâr’s blade. The Alaris of the Tower Guard, had led his remaining Men to fight their way past the Easterling troops that had been cutting them off, and now stood between the Easterling and his King.

 

Idrakhán jumped backwards, two quick swipes of his sword beheading two of the new arrivals. “Thoroniâr, I should have expected you.” Again he advanced, the shadow tightening around him as he sprinted into battle.

 

The next minutes Aragorn was forced to watch how the Easterling nearly casually slaughtered most of the Tower Guard. It was an effortless butchery that made Aragorn once more suspect that some kind of vile, deadly magic had been worked on the Easterling. There was a callous efficiency in these kills that made Aragorn freeze, brave as the Tower Guard's intervention had been, it was for nothing.

 

Thoroniâr, on the other hand, was not easily defeated; he knew what he was up against, and he fought with a grim determination albeit he knew that he stood no chance of winning this duel. He saw his Men go down, each falling comrade a name and another long friendship ended on the Easterling's blade, but never lost focus on the fight, pain had no room in battle. Remaining between the King and Idrakhán he forced the Easterling into a deadly dance that cost him time if nothing else. And that was what he needed – time. He did not dare to look over his shoulder where the Rangers had to work their way past the enemy, he did not even dare to think of Faramir and his plan, only focusing on his own part in it – cost the enemy as much time as he possibly could.

 

Aragorn watched the uneven duel unfold, he could tell that Thoroniâr did not expect to win, it was written all over the grim, iron-hard battle stance, the brutal fighting that spared nothing. He had seen men like this before – willing to walk to their deaths, and the healer in Aragorn shuddered at the cruel waste of life, at the disregard they must have for themselves to be able to throw their lives away like this. That Thoroniâr should do this for him, only deepened the sacrifice he was making. As fierce as their fight was, as long as Thoroniâr held out, it came to a bloody end when Idrakhán sent the brave Alaris to the ground, with several bloody wounds that had smashed his armor. “Well fought, Thoroniâr, just not good enough to save your King,” the Easterling said. “No one can save him now.”

 

“I’d dispute that.”

 

Idrakhán cursed when he saw that the Ithilien Rangers had managed to reach them; most of them had closed ranks to keep the Orcs from reaching the King. But between him and Aragorn now stood Faramir, sword at the ready; the blade shone in his hand like day itself.

 

Faramir attacked with a determination few would have believed him capable of, neither fear nor hopes on his mind, his entire focus on the enemy he fought. There was nothing but this fight, and this foe. Each attack found its block with him; moving swifter than the Easterling could anticipate, he parried even the fiercest attacks of the Easterling, neither the strength nor the speed of the enemy exhausting him, the blade in his hand like a burning brand, sometimes nearly drawn to strike at the enemy,. Each time Faramir's blade found purchase, it did not only cut armor, he felt something else, a darkness, like a shadow that waned with each touch of the bright blade in his hand, like a dark river slowly bleeding out. He could sense the shadow around Idrakhán fail, and he saw how the man's movements slowed to the normal speed of a well-trained Easterling fighter, though exhaustion was taking its toll too., for nothing the Shadow had given Idrakhán came free and now that his cloak of shadow was fleeing his body began to feel the exhaustion. Faramir saw that in each slowed attack and in parries becoming less prompt. He did not underestimate Idrakhán, though; a lion backed to a wall would be more dangerous than one prowling free.

 

“Retreat, you will not slaughter my King, not today and not tomorrow.” Faramir spoke, when their blades clashed again.

 

Trapped under the enchanted shield Aragorn watched as Faramir fought Idrakhán, fearing for another life needlessly wasted on trying to rescue him. Unable to draw his eyes away from the battle, he saw Faramir stand under a storm of fierce attacks, with a calm and firm determination that way beyond compare. Where Boromir was the aggressive fighter, always attacking, always in the verge of a crazy risk, Faramir fought with a composed focus, he was a defender, a rock that would stand, no matter how many blows came down on him.

 

Seeing how Idrakhán was slowing down, and he was getting weaker, hope surged in Aragorn. But then he saw it – Faramir moving to the side, dodging an attack, his sword coming up too slowly, while Idrakhán whirled around for his favorite attack that Aragorn too had been at the receiving end of. “Faramir!” he screamed, knowing his warning would be too late. The Easterling's curved blade found its target, buried in Faramir’s body.  For a moment both opponents stood unmoving in their deathly embrace, and then suddenly Idrakhán stumbled backwards, Faramir's sword having pierced his heart.

 

Aragorn could not believe it – he had heard of this form, long ago when Elrohir had taught him the sword, the Elven Prince had told him of the form called 'embracing the blade', a suicidal move to step consciously into the enemy's attack to get close enough to land the killing blow on the enemy. It was a brutal, self-sacrificing choice and Aragorn was pained to know what price Faramir would pay for his valorous defeat of Idrakhán. His eyes went over to the two enemies lying in a crumbled heap, unmoving, an embrace in death.

 

His breath hitched in his throat when he saw Faramir's head move and the Ranger General pushed himself back to his feet, yanking his sword free of the dead Easterling's body. Turning around Faramir hurried to Aragorn's side, kneeling down on the bloody grounds. “We need to hurry, I don't know how much longer Dwalin can hold the center together.” he said, his hands curling around the rim of the troll shield, as he tried to pry it loose. But the dark steel would not move the least.

 

“Your sword,” Aragorn gasped. “It cut through the spells before.” The blade had made short work of all the protections the Easterling had carried and Aragorn could feel the burning presence of the blade. He had not known that weapons of such power were still existent in Gondor but he was all the more glad for it. He saw the hesitation in the Ithilien Ranger’s eyes. “I trust you; break this thing.”

 

Without further hesitation, Faramir did as he was ordered, his blade smashing the troll shield, breaking the dark enchantment used to hold it. The Steward’s son raised his sword; it shone bright like a star, white light flooding over the field. The Orcs surrounding them shrieked and began to flee from the light of the blade.

 

TRB

 

 For a moment, Boromir felt a fierce pain, like a blade stabbed into his body that he could not understand. His knees buckled and he barely managed to block the attack by the Orc advancing on him. Veryan pushed forward, the first stab killing the Orc about to attack Boromir and the next one as well. “Are you injured?”

 

Boromir struggled to his feet, accepting the pain, not struggling against it. “No,” his blade found its next victim. “It was not me...”

 

A silvery bright light rose from one of the other foothills, like the fabled star of Earendil itself, it shone like a beacon, a torch of hope, sending the Orcs fleeing, but neither Easterlings nor Haradrim paid it much heed. Boromir saw the whole field shift with the Orc formations falling into chaos. He focused on the enemy, who was regrouping very quickly, coordinated by their General. For the first time during this battle, Boromir could peg the enemy commander: a Nazgul on his beast, sitting right between the wings of the Black Gate. With the Orcs in total disarray, running scared from the light, the way was free. He looked to Veryan. “Time to cut off the head.”

 

“And you always said charging a Nazgul was crazy.” The Swan Knight followed his Captain without any hesitation in spite of his words, the rest of the troop formed up with them.

 

“I learned better, Veryan.” Boromir took point as they moved on the Black Gate. “Hope is the spark of Light. And Hope is the banner of freedom.” Kíli had taught him that, and he’d gladly die keeping to this belief, to this hope. They passed the field unopposed. The Nazgul,must have sensed their approach, for he brought his beast up into the air and attacked. It swooped over them, grabbing and tossing a dozen of Boromir’s men in the first attack alone. Coldly, Boromir turned; there was no fear in him anymore, no horror – not even the black wings of the Nazgul could cause him to freeze, he was past the fear, past the doubts. . When the Beast came down again, he waited until it was right above him, and then rammed the black sword into the Beast’s belly.

 

The Beast shrieked, pained, thrashing as it tried to get away, wings flapping in obvious pain but Boromir was not finished. He brought the blade about to cut off the Beast’s ugly wing.

 

TRB

 

Across the field, Kíli nearly broke to his knees when the old wound in his side flared in pain renewed and a wave of dark despair washed oer him. He could feel the cold, the echo of the Nazgûl from afar, echoing to him from where Boromir was fighting. He had felt a stabbing pain not long before, but pushed past it.

 

“Dragon!” The panicked shout echoed over the field. Looking up, Kíli saw a huge form all but eradicating the Rohirrim formation to his right. A few of them managed to evade the attack, though they lost their horses. Closing rank with them, he recognized Éomer and Haleth among them. “They never run out of monsters,” Éomer's voice was grim with determination, as their eyes went uphill towards the new attacker.

 

Kíli saw a long bright lance of eerie blue fire hissing down from the hill. It failed to hit him only by inches, incinerating the stone ground all along its path, cold blue flames flickering from each stone or body it came in contact with. In the cold winter light of the burning stones, he saw a gigantic shadow rise, with tall wings, a long neck and an ugly head rising above him. All in him froze from sheer terror. There was only one fire in this world that could burn stones and melt souls that would scorch and still be colder than ice – nothing in this world or the next could stand against the winter fire of a cold drake. A Dragon had come down from the dens of the Ered Lithui, raising his head for another lance of cold fire to scorch the stony grounds under the Black Gates. Like a burning, melting wave, fear washed over Kíli: the deep rooted, warning fear, the terror all of his kind carried ever since they first had ventured into the Grey Mountains or opposed Melkor’s dragons.

 

“Great Eorl... how can we fight such a terror?” Éomer's eyes were fixated on the flames and the beast spitting them.

 

“They can be killed,” Kíli knew this would be hard, cold drakes, while lesser to the great fire dragons were still one of the worst opponents one might encounter. “Eyes and belly are weak spots.” He had noticed the sparkle in the dragon's eyes – he did not have a horned cornea, rendering the eye susceptible for weapons.

 

The drake leapt forward, faster than anything his size should be able to move, paws cleaving the air, swooping down at Kíli. He saw the attack coming, and evaded it by jumping sideways, more a reflex than a decision of his mind. Haleth, was in range of one of the Dragon’s hind paws and was thrown through the air like a leaf in late autumn. He hit the ground somewhere near the flames. Éomer managed to barely evade a similar attack, but a strike with the Dragon’s tail he could not escape.

 

An icy feeling fell over Kíli’s mind, suppressing all feelings: fear, terror – even the ancestral horror of the drakes was drowned by it. Nothing remained but a chilled feeling, his mind cold and clear like a single flame in the midst of night. Like he could feel Boromir’s icy calm in the face of danger from afar. From one moment to the other he saw the dragon and Éomer fighting him alone, like through a crystal, clear but cold. Few paces covered the distance to the dragon. He took his blade two handed and led a strike against the dragon’s paw. Clinking, the blade was thrown back by the scaly skin of the dragon; the sword had not even left a scratch on the scaled skin. The throwback force alone made Kíli nearly stumble. He might not have done any damage, but now he had the complete and undivided attention of the drake. With an angered, evil scowl, the dragon’s head turned to him, glowing yellow eyes were sparkling dangerously at the dwarf who had dared to arouse the drake’s ire.

 

Instantaneously, he realized he was in biting reach of the dragon and about to become a one bite snack to the unfriendly beast. He saw the open maw with the gigantic teeth and the snakelike tongue coming down on him. With an icy composure, he waited for the drake’s mouth to be close enough for a direct attack against the dragon’s head. He had miscalculated slightly on how fast the cold drake moved; Kíli’s blade missed the target, instead of impaling the roof of the mouth hehit one of the big, glittering teeth. Thousands of splinters sprang in every direction when the tooth smashed by the sword. In pain, the dragon screamed and raised his head, howling.

 

“Kíli, the eye!” Éomer shouted, heedless for the danger the Rohirrim sprinted towards the dragon, his steel sword useless against the scales, but well able to smash another tooth and cut deep into the dragon's soft tongue.

 

In the dragon’s pained howl, Kíli saw the chance Éomer was giving him. Leaning back to give his throw all the force possible, he threw his blade at the bright open eye of the dragon. The blade, thrown with all the strength Kíli could muster, flashed through the air and hit the amber-like eye precisely. The dragon’s death cry shook the ground; his gigantic wings ripped Éomer and Kíli of their feet, throwing them through the air. The lashing tail broke the rocks of the hillside, stones raining down on them.

 

Finally, the body of the dragon fell, his wings stretched out in death, as if he wanted to fly again. A last time he opened his mouth and a small blue fire-lance hissed from it, vanishing into the ground, lightening additional fires to all those that were already burning. But it was different this time: it kept on running through the vale, forming an oval encirclement around them.

 

And then Kíli felt it, contrary to the flames before these where whispering, their echo reaching the dwarf's attuned senses. _Winter Flame_ , a cold shiver ran down his spine, another dread legend had just stepped from the shadow and become life. The Winter-flame for which he had once named his dragonsword was the legendary cold fire of the dragons, consuming souls and life itself, it's touch paralyzing every living being, turning them into cold, unliving shells. Few, very few cold drakes had ever had the Cold Fire, but this one...

 

Another line of hissing flame shot past them. “Stay away from the fire!” Kíli snapped at his comrades, when he finally understood that this was not just final breath but a last spell of the dying dragon. Deep in his heart, he admired the willpower of the wounded creature to muster the strength for a last final spell. ‘ _If I can show half this strength and determination when it comes for me to die, I can be proud_ ,’ he thought. The circle finished that moment; the ends met crackling and hissing flames murmuring and muttering coldly. A barrier neither of them could dare to touch or they would pay the price of paralysis and death, their soul eaten away by the flame.

 

Éomer and Haleth closed ranks with Kíli, the three the only fighters still standing in this part of the field. The battle had moved west of them, the main center having frayed into three separate formations. Something told Kíli that Faramir was at once of these formations, where the main bulk of the forces were fighting but he had no time to think about it, or even wonder if Dwalin was still able to hold the other group. A dry whisper flitted through the air. First it was drowned by the cracking of the rocks still on fire and the groaning of the dying dragon. But when the last light in the eye of the dragon flickered out, they heard the whispering drawing nearer from all sides of the fiery encirclement. It came from everywhere, echoing forth and back, like soft voices whispering in the wind. Shocked, Kíli saw how the flames parted and creatures of burning stone rose from them. They reminded him of the Storm Giants he had seen long ago, only smaller and aflame with the cold dragon’s fire. Many of them rose from the ring of fire. Kíli gripped his blade firmly. This battle had just begun.

 

TRB

 

Boromir felt pain, like a jab in his side and a fear like a drowning wave; he shut both out, pushing past it. The Nazgul’s beast was dead the Rider however had not fled but dismounted, drawing his pale blade. Boromir stood alone; most of his men were dead or wounded, many tossed aside by the beast’s wings.

 

 _“Lay down your arms, you cannot win.”_ The fell voice of the Nazgûl whispered, as the armored figure advanced and brought the pale Morgul blade down on him.

Boromir parried in reflex, without finesse, his body following what had been drilled into him since he was a boy as his mind struggled to push past the memories of the darkness under Minas Morgul. “Never,” his own voice seemed hoarse and thin to him. “weren't you the rider that got his scorching at Weathertop?” he yanked his sword free and again their blades clashed,

_“Stand or fall, win or fail... you lose,”_  the chill voice of Khamûl continued. _“only through surrender you can live... only when you kneel to me you can save the Ring.”_

A chill touched Boromir's soul, the whispers suddenly so close... closer like never before. He could almost see the ring whirl in the darkness, firelight glistening on the golden band. If it reached Mount Doom it would be lost... it would never fulfil its promise.

 

“The Ring...” Boromir's lips moved without his will. He _wanted_ the Ring to survive, the desire to feel the echo of the golden band again became overwhelming, searing into every corner of his soul. The greatest gift of this world must not be lost.

 

“The Ring...” Khamûl had ceased to attack, waiting in eerie patience. Boromir looked at the black figure, a creature he had killed in his dreams, ripped apart and discarded a vile, loathsome shade of times past. “The Ring will never be yours,” the pain searing in his heart was like the fire from Mount Orodruin itself, but it was a pain Boromir welcomed. He would not be a traitor again; he would not do the enemy's work. He'd die clean.

 

He swallowed hard, both hands gripping the hilt of the black sword. “ _Till hope dies and life is gone, till dawn fails and light burns out, on the last day to carry hope into the eye of the Shadow_.” He whispered the blessing he knew engraved on the black sword as he faced the Nazgul. He would fight the fell creature to his dying breath, no matter if he had a chance or not.

 

TRB

 

“Spread out!” Dwalin shouted when he saw the drake. With the fresh troops of Haradrim and Orcs flooding out of the Black gate in during the afternoon hours, the fractured center of the battle had been drawn apart. There were several near separate battles raging in the vale behind them. In an attempt to gain some control of the field, Dwalin and his dwarves had given ground, pulling some of the Rohirrim and Gondorians with them to the ridge at the flank of the vale. It had worked at first, allowing them to regroup, but the main battle was a chaos no war-master could bring into strategy again, thousands, tens of thousands friends and foes caught in a chaos of slaughter that could only end through sheer exhaustion.

 

But only the moment he had at least regained some semblance of formation with his mismatched troops, they had another monster down upon them.  A part of him, a part that he usually ignored or denied having shook in fear, when he saw the dragon advance on them. A second cold drake had come down from the mountains, opposite from where the first had decimated the Rohirrim. He could not afford to freeze, if he failed his troops would fail too, Dwalin knew that, and thought the fear was eating at his very bones, he continued on like it was not the dwarves greatest nightmare that had entered the battlefield. Dragons – he should have known. The enemy had his fill of chances to recruit dragons beyond Smaug, old miserable bastard that he had been. Dwalin moved forward and up the hill. The dwarves reacted quickly, dissolving their formation fast enough to not give the beast an easy target. A cloud of acidic smoke shot down on them, stinking and churning, at least the beast had no full flame. Small favors. Still, it woke memories in Dwalin, dark memories of the day Erebor fell, of the hopeless day that had started their long years of wandering.

 

The dragon swooped around, his tail aimed at Dwalin, who only just evaded it. He got tossed over the ground and hit hard rock. Drawing Bloodstar and Bloodsong, the two axes Kíli had made for him, he growled. He remembered the day the dragon came; he remembered Thorin leading the army against the dragon, standing strong in the face of the beast. Remembering Thorin’s courage, his strength, Dwalin advanced at the dragon. He’d not let his King down.

 

Bofur’s hammer came down on the dragon’s paw. It may not have penetrated the scales but it definitely crushed a few bones. The dwarves were tackling the drake from all sides, Bifur’s spear finding a weak spot and nailing the tail to the ground, others doing small damage where they could. But it was the Dwarven war-master who tackled the head of the monster. One axe in each hand, Dwalin fought with the fierceness of all his being and with an absolute disregard for his own life. The blades of the axes smashed the drake’s maw bloody and battered the head scales. Both axes hard enough to even resist the iron hard scaling of the cold drake. Dwalin kept pressing on, never ceasing the attack. The head of the drake came about, and he saw his chance. Dropping Bloodsong, he picked up a Haradrim sword. When the drake tried to bite him again, he let it come and drove the sword through the roof of the dragon’s mouth and into his skull.

 

TRB

 

Boromir did not know how he could have lasted that long against the Nazgul, but the black sword withstood the hits of the Morgul Blade in his enemy’s hands like it had been forged for exactly this fight. The skies were already darkening around them and their blades still clashed, the Nazgul getting stronger with nightfall. Ducking under one fierce blow, Boromir brought up the blade like he was fighting a mortal man and not an immortal Nazgul. The sword hit the armor, cutting through it like through dry leaves. The Nazgul shrieked, howling in pain as his body was ripped through, and crumbled to ashes.

 

Pain erupted in Boromir’s mind as the whispers of the Ring became a fiery lash, scorching his very soul. A fiery light rose at the horizon, so bright it was like a second sunset, the earth trembled, the mountains shaken by the force of the erruption shining on the eastern Horizon. The Orcs screamed in panic, beginning to flee as parts of the Black Gates broke under the shaking of the ground. The searing pain in Boromir’s mind grew, like a fire burning itself right through his skull; like something dark and vile, more sinister than all he had ever felt, reached for him. Through his nightmares and the whispers he had heard for so long it reached to him, the familiar, seductive voice of the Ring, of the Enemy... only this time he could nearly see the form. A flaming, form burning in the darkness, reaching for him.

 

He pressed his hands over his ears, like he could block out the whispers, the promises of power, of Rulership, of pride... it drew closer and closer, like mists seeping from a chasm at dawn, it crawled up on him and much as he did not want that vile power any more, he knew he could not fend it off on his own. He fell to his knees, shaking with pain, with horror, even as he saw Mount Doom’s fires rise in the distance, heralding the end of the Ring.

 

The darkness surged, filling him with a pain beyond anything he had ever felt. Far away, in the forge of Orodruin the golden band was melting in the fires from whence it had come, and the power, the terrible, sweet power wrought into the gold became free, latching onto the one thing it was still anchored to – Boromir himself.

 

The warrior cringed, when he felt the cold touch upon his soul, how deeply had he befouled himself when he had allowed the Ring to touch him? It crept closer and closer, seeping into him, gaining a foothold in the soul he had so foolishly opened to the Ring.

 

Boromir knew he would not last long before the escaping power of the Ring would take hold in him and control him. Here and now, on the field of death he saw that nothing – neither forsaking power nor setting aside his pride and ambitions – could shield him against the darkness. A lifetime in the Shadow's Reach, his mother's death from the Shadow's taint and too many times under the Shadow had left him vulnerable, open for the darkness to claim him. He had walked in the shadow too long to still have defenses against it. He closed his eyes trying to find the strength to fight, to find something to shield himself against the taint, the vile power that he had even longed for... but there was nothing.  He had fought for all his life, given all he could to that battle and now... there was nothing left. He had given all he could, and his strength was at an end.

 

The pain in his sore body eased a little, but Boromir recognized the easement as the all too familiar unceasing strength of the Lord of the Morning... the Ring had promised him that kind of strength, and now he began to feel it. What could he do? How could he fight becoming a monster, becoming the very vessel of evil? The thought frightened him more than anything had in his life.  His eyes fell on the black sword. There was a way out. He could deny the Enemy a vessel for his fleeing power by simply ending it. He could die and be free of this evil. Boromir had never feared death, and when he took up the black sword, it was with utter calm, even as his mind was lashed by the fiery whip of the dying darkness.

 

He thought of Faramir and Kíli, his brothers, he knew they would understand, the thought of them was comforting, a gentle warmth spreading through him. It felt so much like an embrace from afar, a last goodbye... and then suddenly the pain ceased and he felt something, a presence standing between his soul and the Shadow. Wracked with pain, barley able to stand, he looked up, and in the darkness he saw two figures, one tall, one short, both brightly alight in the shadow surrounding him. From afar, from across the field of death, the very souls of his birth -brother and of his war-brother Kíli were with him, protecting him from the Shadow.

 

In the distance, Barad-Dûr collapsed – the black tower that had haunted the world of Men for so long faltered and failed, crashing into the ground. Tears rose in Boromir’s eyes as he saw it and he was not ashamed to cry. His whole life, from the day he had turned sixteen to this very moment, had been dedicated to protect his people, protect his world from this pinnacle of doom and now… finally, it fell. It had not fallen from the hand of men – there never would be a host of armies to break Barad-Dûr – but Boromir was glad for it. He now knew with utmost clarity that no army could have conquered the fortress of darkness, no leader would have gone unchanged by its evil. The dark tower fell thanks to two Halflings, who had done the impossible.

 

The ground broke up, the Black Gate collapsed, and the stones under Boromir’s feet began to crumble. He struggled to his feet, trying to race away from the destruction, but it was too late: the stones fell under his feet and he was tossed into the deep. Falling into shadow, he knew no more.

 

 


	23. Oh few shall part where many meet

** Chapter 22: Oh few shall part where many meet **

****

Torches blazing into the night lit the darkness that covered the battle field and the camp. The supply caravan had moved closer to the field and made camp on the last ridges above the battlefield. Getting the exhausted, the wounded, and the dying off the battlefield was a work that kept every soldier still standing on their feet even hours after the battle had ended and the task would probably continue long past the sun rose again. The healers had the hardest task of them all, trying to save as many as they could, which meant having to leave all lighter injuries to be tended to by other soldiers.

 

Faramir sat leaning against the side of a rock, trying to steady his breathing. His chest wound had been quickly bandaged and he had sent Beregond away to aid others in greater need than him. Faramir had felt the wound close nearly the moment the blade yanked free, back then, on the field he had no time to think or even care how it had happened. When he had stepped into Idrakhán’s sword to defeat him, Faramir had been ready to die, to lay down his life to save his King. That he would live past that moment seemed impossible, like a dream that he needed to wake from. None of his wounds were especially deep, the worst had healed as he fought. _The smith that made me, made me to save my man, from any face of death._ The runes on his blade said and he had never thought he’d need to believe they were so… literal. It felt undeserved that he should have lived through so many wounds and injuries, while others lay out on the field, dying. Still, even as he was alive, he was weak, like each time he recovered he was getting weaker and weaker and the pain welling inside him was not from the wounds, or the exhaustion – it was something else, which he had felt during the battle several times. Boromir – he was out there, injured and alone in the darkness. How Faramir knew he could not tell, but he felt it like knives cutting into his own body.

 

“Careful!” he heard a light voice snap at someone in the camp. Looking up, he saw the girl that had guided his horse to the barge on the river leading a horse that carried two wounded soldiers into camp. She handed the reins over to one of the people in charge of the wounded. Faramir pushed himself up to his feet and approached her. “Brithonin, isn’t it?” he asked, recalling Éowyn calling her that.

 

The young soldier gave a curt nod. “Lord Faramir, shall I find a healer?”

 

Faramir shook his head, he had no need for a healer, what he needed to hear was something else. “No, I was already seen to. Is there any news of my brother? Any at all?”

 

The Rohirric girl raised her hands in a gesture of negation, as she looked up at Faramir. “No, no one has found him yet, as far as I heard. Éomer King is missing too; Dernhelm is looking for him deeper in the fields where the cold drake came down. My father…” She did not go on, but straightened her shoulders. Faramir saw how she marshaled her features into a semblance of composure.

 

So her father had been among the Rohirrim first facing the wrath of the beast, maybe dead, maybe missing. Faramir felt ashamed that he had only cared about his brother; how many brothers, fathers, lovers lay out there dead or dying with their families having to go on? Before he could say something, Brithonin clasped his arm, much as a soldier would. “Do not worry, my Lord, I’ll find someone to help with the search.”

 

A new surge of pain nearly brought Faramir to his knees, this time he was not sure it was Boromir’s pain he felt, it was somehow different, nearly alien to him. Kíli? Could it be he felt the dwarf as much as his brother? Looking down on his sword arm, he saw the dragon mark having gone darker, like the fire inside was dying. What kind of link, what kind of bond, had been created when the dragon sword broke? He steadied himself, breathing slowly, deeply. If he could feel them, maybe he could share his remaining strength with them.

 

“If your horse can carry us, it will be what we need.” Brithonin approached him again, along with a tall black horse and a familiar Ranger walking beside.

 

Faramir frowned. “Anarion? What are you doing here?” he asked, his head spinning. He tried to fight off the fresh pain. Boromir was getting worse, like he was slowly slipping away. Was he bleeding out?

 

“Helping, Captain,” the Ranger replied. He tilted his head, his sightless eyes going past Faramir but none of his other senses were impaired. “You are injured, Captain.”

 

“Nothing beyond scratches,” Faramir tried to steady his breathing; he could only guess that it was what had given him away.

 

“It does not look like just scratches, my Lord,” Brithonin protested. “I shall go for a healer straight away…”

 

“No!” Faramir grasped her arm, hindering her leaving. “The pain I feel is not my own, it is my brother’s. The sooner I find him; the sooner there will be help for both of us.”

 

Anarion had only heard the echoes of the conversation, heard a hand impact with armor, the steel in Faramir’s voice. The man was not to be dissuaded. “Brithonin says Lord Boromir is still out there. Do you know where he was last seen?”

 

“His men were pushed towards the Black Gate before the Drakes attacked.” Faramir closed his eyes, trying to accept the pain, allowing all he sensed to come to his conscious mind. “There is nothing more, pain and darkness… utter darkness.”

 

“Some of the men said your Captain was the one who attacked the enemy General,” Brithonin said softly. “That would place him somewhere near the broken gate.”

 

“We’ll find him, Captain,” Anarion said reassuringly. “We will go at once.”

 

“I should come with you.” Faramir forced himself to stand, to deal with the cold creeping through the bond. He had to find them, before it was too late, and he was glad to have help in this.

 

TRB

 

Éowyn lifted another injured man onto the cart, gesturing the old warrior holding the reins to go. She did not know how she still managed to move, to not feel the injuries and bruises or how she was still able to stand, , her body battered from fighting Orcs, Olog-hai, and from the mad charge at the Easterling center and her mind weary from the horrors of the battle past them, from blood, screams and the merciless fighting that seemed to be the end of the world. In her heart she wanted to lie down, to close her eyes and cry like she had never cried before, to curl up in a dark spot and wait for the hurt to go away, only… it wouldn’t. And she could not collapse; she was needed. Someone had to keep going. Lord Aragorn was with the healers to save those who were worst injured. Her brother was vanished... not yet found on the fields of death. She wanted to scream, to call for her horse and ride to find him, like she had done as a girl of barely ten years when her brother had vanished in a bitter winter storm. She had saddled Plainsfire, he late father’s stallion, and had ridden into the storm to find him before the cold and the wolves would finish him off. She had killed her first wolf that night, and they had nearly frozen to death but her uncle had found them in time to bring them home.

 

Only now her uncle was resting side by side with his loyal warriors, and the black storm that had scoured the world left others depending on her to keep her cool head. She could not go and search for her brother. Not with so many more still out here. She raised her torch, pointing some of her helpers towards a pile of Orc carcasses. “Over there.” She went on, her steps heavy and tired. The torn chainmail and bloodied cloak she still wore clinging to her weary frame; she had only set aside the battered helmet. A soft groan drew her attention; it came from under another stinking pile of bodies. “Hold out, I will get you out,” she called out to the person trapped under the carcasses as she used a broken spear to remove several dead Orcs but beneath them was the carcass of an Olog-hai and she could not move it. A leg wearing the familiar cuisse had become visible when she had rolled away the last Orc corpse. It was the familiar cuisse of the third éored… Éomer… could it be him? She did not dare think it… could this man, trapped under the body of a dead black troll be her brother. “Only a little longer, I am nearly with you,” she called out. Laying the spear aside, she grabbed the stinking body with both hands and put all her strength to rolling the vile beast off the wounded man beneath. But this thing wore plate armor, so heavy her arms could not push it enough. She was about to call for some of the others when two huge tattooed hands grabbed the black troll’s body and pushed it away, freeing the injured rider beneath. Fear and relief warred in Éowyn when she realized it was not her brother. “Ingvar.” She knelt down beside the brave éored leader. The Olog’s blade had nailed the man through the belly and into the blood-murky ground. He was scarcely breathing, his chest heaving painfully and irregularly.

 

She choked, seeing he still lived. “We need to remove the blade,” she whispered, reaching for the hilt of the overlarge troll blade.

 

Strong hands grasped her wrists, hindering her in actually touching the vile weapon. “He’s beyond your help, M’Lady,” a gruff voice said as a bald dwarf squatted down beside the wounded man. “there’s nothing that can help him now. Let him go home to his fathers gently.”

 

Éowyn knew the dwarf was right; removing the blade would kill the man as surely as leaving it in. Ingvar was near death, he would not see another day rise. Gently she put her hand to his forehead, not knowing if he still could feel her. “You did so very well, Ingvar,” she said softly in her own tongue, making her voice sound as warm and gentle as she could manage. “You are a hero.” Under her hand she felt the skin go cold, a last breath leaving the body rattling, no new breath came. Hoping against hope her hand still rested on Ingvar’s cold forehead, but the proud warrior that had ridden to battle beside her, was dead. No thirty summers old and already dead, her chest tightened, when she saw the familiar face that she had often seen laugh, when he exchanged jokes with her brother, now pale and still. How many more would they find? How many more had thrown themselves against the black flood to never return?

 

She forced the lump in her throat down, impatiently wiping the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. A huge hand gently clasped her arm. “Let it out, lass; he’d not think it a shame that you cried for him.”

 

Éowyn could hear the gentle concern beneath the rumbling voice but she straightened up, forcing herself to stand. “I can’t,” she said. “others need me still.”

 

The dwarf had risen too, he was a tattooed, scar-faced warrior whose wild exterior well hid his kind eyes. “I know, lass; you are a daughter of kings, you have to take care of your people. They need your strength to continue. And if the tears came, they’d never stop.” His words echoed an understanding for her, for why she could not allow herself to cry.

 

“How do you know?” Éowyn was surprised to see so much understanding in the stranger; usually at this point she’d get a comment about women on battlefields. But he had just said what was in her heart and with a voice so understanding that she suddenly felt like she was a little girl again, speaking to her father so long ago.

 

“T’was what a dwarven princess told me the very same thing when she searched the blood field by the gates of Moria for her father, grandfather, brothers… husband…”

 

“And did she find them?” It was a mercy to think of something else if only for a moment; to think that others had come through horrors like this and went on regardless.

 

“Her eldest brother made it; the others sleep on the shores of Mirrormere.” The dwarf looked up at her. “I’ve a few of my men with me, let us help you.”

 

Together they went to find more survivors on the field. Eventually they reached the devastated grounds the drake had left. No horse would come close to this spot; they shied away from the ashen grounds and the stench. Éowyn looked around, desperately, bodies as far as she could see in the light of her torch. Had anyone at all survived? Could anyone have made it through this horrible attack? Her boots were covered in a pale ash that also was swirling in the air. “What is this?”

 

“This cold drake still had the winter fire,” the dwarf replied grimly. “The other only could puff out smoke, but this one… had the cold fire; bad fate for all who faced it.” Suddenly he stilled, listening intently into the darkness. “There.” He pointed left. “Survivors.”

 

Éowyn followed him across the grounds littered with bodies, gingerly stepping across a ring of ash; there were stones everywhere, stones that looked like smashed beings, like stone men of legend. “Over here, lass!” the dwarf called out, clearing away several stone pieces of another stone man creature. A familiar figure lay beside another broad trace of ash on the ground.

 

“Éomer.” She hurried over, kneeling down beside her brother. Éomer lay half turned on his side, like he had tried to curl up in pain. He was still breathing, and while his wounds had clotted over, blood was weeping from the cracks in the crusts whenever he moved. Taking stock of his numerous wounds, Éowyn breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that none seemed immediately deathly, but he was cold, so cold. “What is happening to him?” She could not see a wound that would explain his going cold so quickly.

 

The dwarf had squatted down on the other side, holding his torch above his pale face, checking his eyes. “He has the Shadows own luck, that one,” he said with an affectionate grumble. “He came close to the winter fire, but someone must have pushed him out of the way. He was touched only a little… and that can be helped. Bofur! Get back to camp and tell Beris and Brea I want a kettle of boiling blood cooking by the time we bring this one to camp!” he barked.

 

“Winter flame?” Éowyn recalled the songs that told of the ancient battles against dragons. “The cold dragon’s fire that will paralyze him and eat his soul?”

 

“Aye, lassie,” the dwarf confirmed. “but he was lucky, the touch was fleeting, his eyes are still alive. We’ll help him before it can spread too far. Don’t worry, this is not the first warrior who fought those beasties that my people see.”

 

Hooves startled her; indeed, she saw two horses approach that did not shy away from the dead drake’s body, a lucky turn of events. She rose and waved them close. One was Brithonin, back in Aeledher’s saddle, while she saw Faramir and another man on the back of a black Mearas. The black horse did not shy from the dragon corpse, while Brithonin had trouble making Aeledher step right beside the dead body. “I am glad you have reached us,” Éowyn said. “my brother was wounded and we need to bring him back to camp quickly.”

 

Faramir looked at Éowyn, her brother, and Dwalin, and the cold he felt was not coming through the bond. Another man close to death, and the darkness, the cold drawing closer even; how could he give his own brother priority over the lives of others? His thoughts must have been open on his face, for Brithonin turned to him. “Aeledher’s could carry us both quickly, my Lord. While Anarion and you could go on and search for your brother.”

 

“You are searching for your brother, Faramir?” Éowyn stepped closer to the horse, her hand gently patting the black horse’s side. “Before the fire erupted I saw him battle the Nazgul over there…” She pointed into the darkness at the black gate. “Go and find him; we’ll get other horses.”

 

“No.” Faramir shook his head, his mind made up. “Take your young friend’s offer and let her help you bring your brother back to camp. He deserves the same consideration that I give my brother.”

 

Brithonin dismounted and handed Dwalin the reins of Aeledher while Faramir told Anarion on where they needed to go, quickly departing into the night towards the region Éowyn had indicated.

 

They lifted Éomer on the horse’s back; he could not hold himself up there, so Brithonin mounted behind him, holding the wounded man’s slumping body against her chest. The dwarf handed Éowyn the reins. “Get them back to camp, lass. Your brother needs you now.”

 

“I can’t, there’s more wounded out here.” Éowyn knew her duties, even as it tore shreds into her soul to not care for her brother. They had looked out for each other ever since the day their parents had been taken from them, and they had watched over each other when Wormtongue manifested his vile rule over Meduseld. To this day they had always weathered storms together, been there when the other needed them and given each other strength and warmth. Now she had to abandon her brother, because her duty was not ended.

 

“Leave that to an old dwarf, lass. I’ll make sure we find all the survivors on this side of the field. Now go – your brother needs you.” While his voice was gruff, his words were kind.

 

“What is your name?” she asked, her hand closing around the reins more firmly to guide the horse across the dark field.

 

“Dwalin. When you get to camp, find Brea – she’ll have the draught for your brother.”

 

TRB

 

Anarion dismounted the horse when Faramir told him that the chasm began ahead of them. Using his spear to check the grounds before him, he quickly gained some feeling for the area he stood in. There was a gust of air coming from below – the wind was hitting the walls of the chasm and spiraling upwards, in a way he could feel where the chasm was just by the touch of the cool air on his face. . He heard the familiar hiss as Faramir lit a torch. “The smell is lighter here…” he said, allowing his senses to understand his surroundings. “There must be fewer corpses here.”

 

Faramir understood what Anarion sensed, how he relied on all he had been trained to as a Ranger to work past his blinded eyes. Parts of the ground were broken and shattered; the Black Gate had collapsed and added its rubble to the destruction. They were standing on the very brink of the desolation. “There are some dead left of us, let’s begin there,” he said, the sense of pain receding and strengthening now and then. Like waves washing against him, the cold seemed closer too and it did not feel as alien any more. Maybe it was coming from Boromir after all? And while the pain was still intense, he had an easier time standing. He had the sense that they were close, though.

 

The Fell Beast’s body was surrounded by corpses; many of the soldiers had been ripped to shreds by the creature. Among them, Faramir saw many familiar faces, soldiers he had fought beside for long years, men whose families he knew back in Minas Tirith, some who even might have been friends. But foremostly he found one warrior, lying on a whole heap of slain foes, his cold hand still closed around the hilt of his shattered blade. Veryan of Dol Amroth, who had been slain by the Nazgul, had gone down fighting like he always had: to the last he had stood, blade still in hand, he had not run or retreated, but faced the fell enemy heads on. His still face still mirroring grim determination. Gently Faramir closed the dead man’s eyes, even in dead Veryan knew no peace, and even now he still appeared every inch the warrior he had been in life. Faramir hung his head, another friend fallen, another friend departed forever. He wanted to shed tears for his friend, for his cousin, for the warrior that had grown up beside him, who had been sent to the city of stone, far away from the sea to be trained up with Denethor’s sons. But no tears would come; only a distant sadness lodged into Faramir’s soul, like even from afar Veryan would remind him that mourning was a wasted emotion.

 

“There’s someone behind us,” Anarion said softly. “someone is breathing, and moving just slightly.”

 

Faramir listened and after a moment he heard the same over the wind. “Careful, behind you is the chasm.” He said, moving closer, holding the torch over the ledge. His heart nearly jumped when he saw his brother lying on one of the broken ledges beneath them, he lay unmoving and if it was not for the fain breathing Faramir could hear too, he would have assumed him dead. For the body lay like he had fallen, rolled over stone and then stopped, halfway on the side, legs drawn in protectively, maybe Boromir had felt his fall and tried to not break all bones?

 

TRB

 

Dwalin quickly organized his people to scour the field for more survivors. This was one of the last parts not searched yet. On the parts of the field already searched, a pattern usually emerged – orc corpses here and clear spots elsewhere. This corner of the field though was still like it had been: a dark mess of bodies, enemy and foe still clung into their deadly embrace. He also sent Bofur and a surviving Gondorian to take care of the search on the other fringes of the field, often injured people were overlooked at the very fringes of covered ground. They found several injured Rohirrim, among them Haleth and Erkenbrand of Westfold, who were brought back to the camp immediately, but there were few who still lived. The Rohirrim had been torn apart by the cold dragon’s attack. He then went back to the fiery circle where they had found Éomer, a restless feeling telling him to take another look. Only on the third try did he find him. Kíli was sitting with his back against the dead dragon, a number of smashed stone creatures all around him. It did not take Dwalin a second guess to know that Kíli had been touched by the cold drake’s fire, his skin was all pale and his wounds were closed over by a silvery hued scrapping. And the unnatural stillness in him, was another sign – those touched by the fire stopped feeling anything quickly and became still “Dwalin,” Kíli whispered, his voice strained as he raised his chin, to look at Dwalin.

 

Kneeling down beside the injured dwarf, Dwalin saw that the cold fire had sealed at least a dozen other major injuries, an ironic prolonging of a life that would otherwise bleed away. Kíli’s movements were slow and forced; he was already losing control of his body. Dwalin reached for Kíli’s face to at once check his eyes. He nearly did not dare do it, scared of what he might find. All too vividly he remembered the pyres of Azanulbizar where King Thrór had been put to rest, and even more he recalled the lonely grave by the pines outside of Erebor. Dwalin did fear neither darkness nor death but the thought of yet having to burry another King was one that truly scared him.

 

Kíli moved his head, tilting it enough for their eyes to meet his eyes were still black and alive, the cold fire had not run its full course. It was no real relief for Dwalin, he knew all too well that Winter Fire was a slow death, that would soon enough follow. “How bad is it?” the bald warrior asked.

 

“Not so bad... cold mostly. No pain, not even from the other wounds. If that’s the way to go then it is easy,” Kíli replied slowly. “Can’t feel much, though.”

 

“The Winter fire, t’was you who pushed those horse men out of the way, was it?” Dwalin grumbled, he did not need an answer, he knew already. The question had been resigned, and a little amazed all the same. While he was long familiar with Kíli’s fearlessness, with his tendency to always protect others, no matter what, it astounded him still that Kíli could face the things their people spoke of in whispers and be so calm about it. It was not a death wish, but a way to care about others that left Dwalin always feeling overprotective of Kíli.  “Listen, Kíli, I’ll bring you back to camp but you have to promise me that you stay with me, right? Stay awake.” He slipped one arm under Kíli’s shoulder, the other under his knees and lifted the younger dwarf up.

 

“I am not that young a dwarfling anymore, Dwalin.” Kíli’s voice was still a whisper but he kept awake as promised. “Even back on that other battlefield, you could hardly carry me.”

 

“How would you know?” Dwalin grumbled, remembering the Battle of the Five Armies. “I carried you then and you haven’t been putting on that much muscle since.”

 

Kíli leaned his head against Dwalin’s shoulder, much like he had done almost eighty years ago, when Dwalin had carried him off that hill outside Erebor. Back then he had been half dead, wishing he was dead, and too exhausted for even tears or suicide. Like then, now again, Dwalin was the rock that still stood, that one piece of family that had never gone away, never been killed or turned against them. And for this one moment Kíli allowed the leader, the warrior to slip away and be that much younger dwarf again, leaning into the protection of his mentor, his honorary Uncle. “I remember, Dwalin. I was awake when you carried me... I heard you talk,” he said softly. “I knew you were there, trying to save me. You barely could carry me.”

 

Dwalin shivered. He vividly recalled that day but he had never been aware that Kíli had been coherent at that time. He had kept talking to the badly wounded young dwarf to somehow let him know he was not alone. “I was injured,” he grumbled, “and you wore that plate armor from the Erebor armory. That flimsy chain mail you use now could be of Elvish make, light as it is.”

 

“It’s not flimsy, just practical.” Kíli closed his eyes. “How is it, Dwalin, that you are always there when our strength runs out? You were there for Thorin, for me… always; we’d all be long dead without you.”

 

“Don’t you fall asleep on me, Kíli,” Dwalin gently shook him, trying to keep his attention. “I’ve seen two Kings fallen and buried in my lifetime, and I’ve sworn when they bury the next, they’ll have to bury me too. I won’t let another of your House down while I still draw breath.”

 

“Dwalin.” Kíli tried to raised his hand, or gain Dwalin’s attention, but he could not really move anymore. His body would not obey him. Even raising his head seemed to take too much energy. He closed his eyes, just remaining where he was, feeling the cold shoulder guard of Dwalin against his cheek. “You never let us down… never.” The words came out in a soft whisper before the darkness took him.

 

TRB

 

Faramir reached the bottom of the ledge, carefully balancing on the narrow rocks. Boromir lay unmoving, but he also was still breathing, which was a good sign. He knelt down beside him and checked for injuries, there were several but none were lethal or vicious, Boromir had made it through better than Faramir, actually, but there was something dark about him, like a pained echo Faramir felt time and again. Like a searing pain, a tear going right through his chest, his body detached from the feeling but his soul cringing. However it receded the longer he was with Boromir, as though his presence was pushing away whatever shadow was trying to keep Boromir from ever waking again. Reaching for Boromir’s hair, he tilted his head slightly to check for injuries on the side resting against the stone. Upon his touch, Boromir stirred, grasping for his sword, still lying beside him. It must have just slipped his grip when he landed here.

 

“Calm down, you are safe,” Faramir said. “Or as safe as it gets.”

 

Boromir groaned and tried to sit up, holding his head. “What’s the situation?” he asked tiredly.

 

Faramir shook his head. It was so like his brother to ask for a report at once, going back from wounded soldier to Captain in the blink of an eye. He had seen it before, seen Boromir push aside pain and loss and focus back on the battle, on the war. The war… always the war. And then suddenly Faramir realized that this was _the last time_ , it was over now, and they finally, finally would find peace. The sheer joy of the thought felt like wings sprawling inside his chest. “The battle was won, Barad-Dûr has fallen… and we are still finding wounded on the field. We’ll have to get you back to camp. What about your injuries?”

 

“Nothing serious, just scratches.” Boromir steadied himself on one hand, sitting up fully. “But a cold… icy and painful.”

 

Now that Boromir spoke of it, Faramir felt it too, the cold was still there. It had drowned out some other feelings, maybe the pain too, but it still grew, like it was slowly creeping up on them. “You feel it too; I thought it came from you.” he said. “I felt a pain from you, like something… something ripping through you.”

 

Their eyes met and in the flickering light of the torch, Faramir perceived a glance full of haunting and pain. “When the Ring went… Fari, I do not know how you did it but without you and Kíli… the dark would have taken me.” Boromir embraced his brother, drawing him close. “I’d have been lost; the dark was calling for me.”

 

Wordlessly the brother held each other, grateful they had survived, glad the other lived. Eventually Boromir was steady enough to climb back up with Faramir, and with the first rays of a grey dawn they made their way back to camp.

 

TRB

 

The stench from the cauldron was awful and Éowyn struggled to not choke on it. She certainly was not squeamish but she did not want to know what kind of vile draught needed blood as an ingredient. Nevertheless, the treatment of rubbing the stinking stuff into her brother’s skin already showed good effect: he had gotten warmer and was breathing more normally. Éomer was barely coherent, though, trying to push the jar and the hands away forcefully when they tried to give him some of the draught. “We’ll need to get at least one jar of that into him,” Brea told her, the black-haired dwarf holding down Éomer’s sword hand while Éowyn was trying to make him take the potion. “and he doesn’t want to drink.”

 

“Even awake I doubt he’d take this vile brew.” Éowyn gently ran her hand through her brother’s hair, trying to calm him.  “He can be very stubborn.”

 

“Then you’ll need to see him married very wisely, if he’s a stubborn one.” Brea handed her a spoon, so she could try to get some sips of the brew into him.

 

“Are you volunteering?” Éowyn grinned at Brea, finding that somehow the ability to smile had survived in her.

 

The dwarf woman laughed. “Me? No. Do not take it as an insult, but he is not even the slightest bit attractive. No beard, skinny and tall…” Their eyes met and both women found themselves chuckling.

 

The tent-flap was pushed aside and the broad shouldered frame of a dwarf walked in. He carried a second dwarf in his arms, curled up against him like a child. The way Dwalin held the wounded dwarf bespoke a wealth of care and worry.  “Brea, we need the draught right away. Kíli…” He gently shook the sleepy dwarf again. “you need to keep awake, please.” He said softly.

 

Éowyn left her brother at the dwarf woman’s tender mercies and fetched a whole jar of the stinking concoction. “There, Dwalin,” she said. “Will it help him?” She had seen her brother’s state when they arrived here, but the dwarf Dwalin had carried in looked worse, pale, unmoving and not even able to fight off the saving concoction.

 

Going down to his knees, Dwalin gently set Kíli down on the floor of the tent, still allowing him to half-sit and rest against him. “I hope so, lass, by rights he should be dead, the fire touched him hours ago.” He nudged Kíli to swallow the draught, though each single gulp came slow, painfully slow.

 

Kíli swallowed the brew and made a face. “That tastes worse than the stuff you gave me against the red fever when I was a dwarfling.” He whispered, his voice barely there.

 

The huge warrior gently ruffled Kíli’s dark mane. “Back then at least I could bribe you with stories so you would drink your medicine,” he said fondly. “Now… another jar; we need to get life back into you, or the cold fire will first paralyze and then kill you.”

 

TRB

 

Aragorn was exhausted, not just in body, but also his soul was weary when his eyes gazed across the part of the camp that was now healer’s. Wounded warriors, dying soldiers and dead bodies carried away was all he could see. How many had died? He did not dare to think of a number, of a term put to the thousands he had led to their deaths before the Black Gate. No number could ever contain the lives, the hopes, the bright lights extinguished. Closing his eyes he pushed the thoughts away, a healer was not permitted to grieve, his foster-father had instilled that rule into him. A healer had to serve those who still lived and leave the mourning to those who could do nothing to help. When the battle had ended Gandalf had summoned him to the place where the Eagles had landed, carrying Frodo and Sam. Both were thin, wounded and exhausted, having gone through a brutal journey inside Mordor, but both lived beyond the shadow of doubt. After that he had helped with treating the severely wounded. Any healer, no matter their years – or lack of years – of experience was needed with the flood of injured pouring in from the fields. He knew the toll of the battle was high and every life that could be saved was a small victory.

 

“No, just leave him to die in peace,” he heard one of the others say. “He’s lost so much blood, and these wounds… he won’t make it. Give him some peace.”

 

Going outside the tent to see which hopeless case it was this time, Aragorn was startled to see Thoroniâr, lying on the ground where he had been put down. Vicious wounds covered his body, he was pale from loss of blood, but he was still breathing. “Get hot water and clean bandages,” he told one of the helpers, who hurried to obey his orders. Squatting down beside the soldier, Aragorn took stock of the wounds. Most of them were long cuts along the torso, but luckily no broken ribs or punctured lung.

 

When he began to clean the wounds and put scalding athelas poultices on them, the wounded Alaris was yanked from the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness, his body going rigid and his steady breathing becoming a groan as his eyes fluttered open. “The battle…”

 

It was hardly more than a whisper but Aragorn’s sharp Ranger ears picked it up. He shuddered; did these sons of Gondor ever stop thinking of their dread task and begin to take care of themselves? “The battle is done,” he said soothingly, Thoroniâr needed to rest, to allow himself to be treated. “And now lie still; I can’t give you something against the pain, not yet.”

 

“We’re on retreat?” Thoroniâr focused on the pain, it restored his own sense for his body. If the battle was over, and it had been a hopeless battle to begin with, they had to be on retreat. A King should not waste time to take care of injured soldiers, not if they were on a fast-paced move across the hills of Ithilien.

 

The sheer stubbornness reminded Aragorn vividly of Boromir. The Lord Captain of Gondor had shaped an entire army like that, an army of lions that would fight until their last breath. And while the reality of it made the healer in Aragorn shudder, he knew what a gift such an army was. Stopping his ministrations for a moment, he took the Alaris’hand with his, drawing the full attention of the injured soldier. “We won. I’d have been dead without you and Faramir,” he said, forestalling the man’s attempt to speak. “And I have need of you, Alaris. You will survive, do you understand? You will fight for your life and you will survive, that’s an order.” He would need a Captain of his Guard and Thoroniâr was exactly the material for that.

 

“Aye, my liege…” The man drifted out of full consciousness again, but Aragorn knew his order had been heard, Thoroniâr would live.

 

TRB

 

Sunrise was upon the camp as the brothers slowly walked up the hillside of the camp. Boromir was supporting Faramir, but moving became harder for him too, as the cold was creeping deeper and deeper into his bones. Neither of them was well, and what he sensed of Kíli was weakening. Never before had Boromir been aware how much he had felt Kíli’s presence in his mind, the stalwart echo of a powerful will, like the ancient rocks of the Misty Mountains, strong yet comforting. But that presence was drifting away from them, slipping into the darkness.

 

Swiftly surveying the camp around them, he called out for the first dwarf he recognized. “Bofur, where is Kíli?”

 

The bearded dwarf stopped his hasty stride, a great sadness in his eyes. “Over there, fifth tent to the right. You… you may just be in time to say goodbye.” He said hanging his head.

 

Dying? Could it be that Kíli was dying of his wounds? Boromir only felt the cold, no direct pain, but maybe Kíli was gone too far already. Hastening their stride, the brothers approached the tent,  that Bofur had pointed them to.

 

They found Éowyn, Éomer, Dwalin, and Kíli there. Kíli was lying in a leaden sleep, like death itself was creeping closer to him. Dwalin sat beside him, his mighty shoulders slumped in defeat, speaking softly to the fading dwarf in the tongue of his own people.

 

Approaching Kíli Boromir felt a cold brush at him, like a breath of ice drawing Kíli slowly under, like an icy echo of something that would kill him. The icy chill seemed to kreep into Boromir’s bones as well, and he gritted his teeth. This was a death he could not accept. Kíli had come that long road to Gondor, because they had become friends, he had fought for a land that he had not connection to, because they were friends, and he had stood by Boromir during the terrible battle for Boromir’s own soul. That he should die at the end of the journey was nothing Boromir would accept. He went closer, kneeling down beside the wounded dwarf and grasped his sword hand. “You can’t give up now, Kíli… remember? Never give up until you absolutely have to?” he said, not even knowing if the dwarf could hear him.

 

He could not feel anything but the cold, the great sleep drawing closer, but Boromir did not let go. Kíli had helped him against the Shadow, reached him, even when the Ring was grasping his soul… it should be possible to do the same in reverse. Boromir had never been a spiritual man, he had never cared for the ancient lore of his people and he had no time to learn… yet he had to try. Closing his eyes he focused on the echo he could sense of Kíli, if there was a strength inside them that could yet save Kíli he would find it.

 

Faramir had followed him, putting his hand above Boromir’s. His presence joined with the two others, drawing close together made it easier to bear the cold. And suddenly he felt it – a bright light, a radiant warmth emanating from Boromir and sinking into his very skin, like his body was thawing after a night out on the ice. He looked down on his arm and found the dragon mark brightly aglow in flame. Warmth seemed to spread through them like the surge of a great fire, a flame yet unquenched. The warm tingled in their skin, spreading through their muscles, driving the tired slowness away.

 

Kíli heaved a deep breath, his body shaking as the cold fire finally left him. Boromir could feel how the cold flame withdrewn and Kíli was returned to them, slipping into a healthy, healing sleep. He lived, he would stay and not yet return to that great smith from whence his people had come in the elder days. He too could feel the dragon mark burn on his arm, bright as flame.

 

Awed, Dwalin watched, almost not trusting his own eyes with what he saw. “The gift of brothers…” he said.

 

“You know what this means?” Faramir asked, his eyes indicating the identical marks on their arms. He had long deciphered the Adûnaic inscription but had not been able to divine anything useful beyond that.

 

“It is an ancient legend among my people – among Durin’s Folk mostly – the legend tells of Durin the Deathless, who lived a life long past normal dwarven lifespans. The legend claims that he shared a bond with his chosen brother, and as long as one lived, the other survived. Eventually his chosen brother was murdered and Durin I died, yet several times in his bloodline there would be a son born so similar to him in appearance and life that they would be crowned under his name. They say it will happen once more, before our time in this world ends.” Dwalin looked at the marks. “However it happened, this spell bonded you as brothers, intertwining your lives and fates. There is no closer bond. You keep each other alive, yet the death of one of you will call all three of you to the halls of Mahal.”

 

 


	24. Epilogue: The Return of the King

** Chapter 23: The return of the King **

****

The first spring moon rose high in the skies above Ithilien. The winds had turned south and finally the chill of the receding winter had evaporated from the nightly air. It was two weeks after the battle at the Black Gates and the army was now camped in Ithilien, about half a day’s march North of Cair Andos. With the great number of injured fighters, the wounded thrice outnumbering the uninjured, it had not been feasible to march any further. The spring night found Boromir wandering the earthen walls of the camp. The rested units from Cair Andros had dug a deep trench around the camp, the material from that and some more used to form a simple earth wall to shield the camp. It was a simple but effective measure.

 

 Walking alone, until he stood under an Ithilien Elm uphill, seeing the shadow of the Ephal Duath under the silver light of the moon. Silently he recalled the names of his men that had fallen in the last battles. Gerion, Corfalas, Corluin… farmer sons from the western provinces; Hirion, Turan, Nardhel… all sons of the white city who had heard the call of war as young as Boromir had, other names followed, each of them held a face for him and he did not try to push those memories away. It had been a ritual among them, remembering those who had fallen, or who had been left behind under the Shadow. He would not wish to forget their faces. Veryan of Dol Amroth, the name brought a fresh jab of pain when he recalled the friend of his youth, the loyal comrade… the man who’d have followed him to hell and back if Boromir had asked him to. Veryan had been by his side in this war from the beginning, always at his shoulder, always there to be relied on, and now that he was gone Boromir knew he would miss his friend.

 

“Farewell, Veryan, may your path lead you home.” Boromir raised his hand, reaching out into the dark, wishing his friend an easy journey to the lands where pain and darkness were but a memory.

 

They all had agreed to not mourn each other, it had been the compact between them, to not mourn but never forget. For they all had signed up for this war, they all had known that by placing their name on the recruitment roll they had signed their own death warrant. And while Boromir would never forget any of them, he would not dishonor their bravery by mourning openly.

 

Soft steps startled him out of his reverie. Not a soldier – the man was too light on his feet, a Ranger most likely. He sighed, recognizing the step. “Thorongil,” he did not turn around; he could hear the light steps as Thorongil approached the Elm. “Is there anything you needed me for?” he asked, letting the Captain snap into place.

 

Aragorn joined him standing on the low hill; he wore the same black and silver armor he had worn when they rode from the city. “I wanted to speak to you, alone, without any of the others close to overhear.” The King said calmly. “But I did not wish to disturb you saying your goodbyes. They all will be commemorated properly.”

 

Boromir shook his head. “Ceremonies are meaningless, Thorongil, they are something for the survivors, for the families, the lovers, for those who have never seen war and will hopefully never face battle; maybe for their sons even to remember what their fathers fought for. But the ceremonies have no meaning… not to those who fought.” His eyes went to the dark peaks in the distance. “Twenty-five years ago, this very night, I stood with two hundred men over there, near the crossroads. The Easterlings had raided the Eastern shore and dragged away many of our people, corralling them in the Thorn-fortress.”

 

_He still could feel the glances of the other soldiers. Their Captain was dead, his second wounded, and the other lieutenant in favor of retreat, and the soldiers were suddenly turning to him. It had not been the sons of any noble house who had spoken up, no it had been others. Turan, the son of an armorer in Minas Tirith; Bran, a woodsman_ _’_ _s son and ten years Boromir_ _’_ _s senior; and Eradan, an archer from Ithilien. “There has to be another option, M_ _’_ _Lord.” Bran had spoken; he vividly recalled the deep voice of the twenty-seven year old soldier, leaning on his spear. “We can_ _’_ _t leave them hanging.” They had turned to him to come up with a plan, with an option, no matter what their remaining officer said. And while he remembered the cold fear he had felt that moment, seeing that they expected a plan from him, Boromir could only wonder that he had ever been so young._

 

“We came up with a plan to free out people from that dreadful place, it was risky and we knew we’d not all make it out alive. We made a compact then, we’d not stop to rescue one man and risk the mission, we’d do what was needed to get our people back from their hands and we would not mourn those who died, we would not mourn but never forget.” Boromir closed his hand around a branch of the elm tree. “I gave them my word to not mourn them, but to never forget them. And looking back now, remembering them, I know that they’d be glad to see it finally done, to see the Dark Tower fallen.”

 

“Did you get your people home?” Aragorn could see that Boromir’s eyes were on the sleeping landscape of Ithilien, looking far away into the past, maybe his mind was walking with the men again, that he had led against the shadow. It was here and now that Aragorn truly felt how long Boromir’s war had been. Nearly twenty-five years, from an age so young he should not have known what war meant, to this very moment, and while he could see that the Captain had sought to be alone, the healer in Aragorn protested to leave any man alone with such a burden. Twenty-five years of war those were the best years of a man’s life and then some, given to fight, to death, to a hopeless struggle. Did Boromir even feel now that the yoke was lifting?

 

“Aye, we got them home. Lost thirty soldiers, and the commander in Osgiliath was not sure if he should commend us or have us whipped for disobeying orders. He decided for both, for good measure.” A smile rose on Boromir’s lips. “Baranor… he was one tough commander, the very best.”

 

“I think I met him as a young man,” Aragorn recalled a young soldier of that name but he had a hard time picturing easygoing, laughing Baranor, with his mischievous blue eyes and bright singing voice as the old grizzled commander of Osgiliath.

 

When he spoke, Boromir tensed, his eyes focusing again, and the Captain straightened up. “You said you wished to speak to me,” he said, his voice becoming more formal, an unspoken _Sire_ hung in the air after the sentence.

 

Aragorn sighed inwardly; he could well see the wall Boromir built up. Was this all he’d ever get from the man, a grudging acceptance, because this was how things had to be? “Can we be as honest as we were that day outside the walls of the city?” Aragorn asked, hoping that Boromir would be willing to speak openly. “I would like to know where I stand with you.”

 

The Captain shrugged, leaning back against the tree, his posture slightly relaxing. “I wonder why you feel you have to ask, Thorongil,” he said. “When we reach Minas Tirith you will be crowned, and you will have no opposition from me.”

 

“That is more than I had a right to expect, given how much you despise me.” Aragorn still wondered why Boromir would do that, he could have given Aragorn a lot of trouble, the armies might be awed by the returned King but they would stand behind their Captain beyond doubt or reason. During the long journey that had been the last year he had come to doubt Boromir more than once, to be time and again surprised by him, he had come to question Boromir’s motifs and honor several times, and had learned that while maybe the most ruthless soldier to ever serve the White City, Boromir’s loyalties were beyond question. And he was very grateful that Boromir would not turn the armies against him and begin a bloody civil war, deep in his heart Aragorn was not sure if such a war could be won – Boromir was a charismatic leader and a man who had been shaped by a long, brutal war.

 

Pushing away from the tree, Boromir approached him, meeting his eyes calmly as an equal. “I may have been harsh with you at times, Thorongil,” he said. “maybe harsher than you deserved, you had your own struggles and dangers to contend with. Maybe we had to fight this war on our own, maybe the long struggle under the shadow was necessary, to hammer out the army you could lead unto the Black Gate itself. Had you been here, we might have been too weak to last under the storm, so I not will hold your long absence against you like I once did.”

 

He looked past Aragorn, back to where the city lay beyond the river. “And I think you may be the best thing that could have happened to Gondor. She had her leaders of war, she had her heroes who sleep in their graves under Ithilien’s moons… but now she needs a King of Peace.” His eyes went back to Aragorn, and for the first time Aragorn could detect vulnerability in them. “And none of us would know how to be that. No one born in this generation has ever seen peace, and our fathers knew little enough of it. You will be the healer to mend Gondor and restore peace to our people. In that, you are the very best thing you could happen to Gondor.”

 

The words touched Aragorn’s heart in unexpected ways. Coming from the man who had lived a life of war to protect this nation, who had been ready to die for Gondor, they meant a lot, they indicated a trust Boromir had that Gondor would be in good hands with Aragorn. Yet, there was a distance in the man’s green eyes. “Gondor again,” Aragorn observed. “you will always do what is good for her, Boromir. But what of yourself?  You said you can accept that I would be a good King for Gondor…” Among the elves, Aragorn had learned insight into the souls of others and he could clearly read what there was in Boromir. “A good King for Gondor but never your King, is it?” he asked, without any accusation in his voice. It was not meant as such, and he was not offended, he slowly began to see what Boromir was trying to say, and he could appreciate that it was not easy for him to truly admit it.

 

“I had never expected to live beyond the last battle,” Boromir replied tilting back his head slightly. “nor that I’d see the Dark Tower fall in my lifetime.” They eyes met and Aragorn could see a more open expression in them than he had before. He had no doubt it was true, Boromir had been sure to die in the battle, to never live to see the end of the war.

 

“You did not mind following me to your death, because it was necessary to protect Gondor. But now that you have lived through that night…”

 

“I will not turn on you, if that is what you fear. I am not like Daín.” Boromir said firmly, he had turned around fully to face Aragorn, falling into his favourite posture when talking with him: arms crossed in front of his chest, feet firmly planted on the ground, ready to be heard – or to argue. “I will not steal the throne from the rightful Prince. Much as it leaves me with things to consider.”

 

“Maybe you struggle so much with it because you do not want to admit that another holds your loyalties already, Boromir.” Aragorn decided to break up confrontational pose Boromir had chosen, he had learned already how easy it was to simply argue with this man. Thus he sat down on one the boulders, gesturing Boromir to sit as well. He had come into this conversation fairly tense, expecting anger, rage, maybe even open defiance from Boromir, and he had been confused to find resigned acceptance instead. Now that he was seeing more clearly, Aragorn felt easier, on familiar grounds again and with a basis to actually talk.

The Captain followed the gesture and sat down. “My first loyalty was always Gondor,” he told him.

 

“Nay, I would not doubt your loyalty to your homeland, Boromir,” Aragorn said. “but if you had to place your black sword of yours at the feet of any man and swear to him, it would not be me. Though I think I know whom it might be.”

 

Now Boromir’s head perked slightly up as he cast Aragorn a curious glance. “Enlighten me.”

 

Aragorn laughed. “Boromir, it was frighteningly obvious, though it confounded me at first. When I first met you and Kíli in the trollshaws, I was simply surprised to see that I could not tell clearly who of you was the leader. You were willing to follow a dwarf’s lead in some things, something unheard of you any son of your fathers’, or of your own reputation. But I believed it to be you being stranded in a strange, wild land, trying to fulfill your mission, and that Kíli had won enough of your respect, that you would trust his judgment. When I saw you with that axe and noticed your missing dagger as we set out from Rivendell, I thought that this one dwarf might have impressed you somewhat, but when Gimli questioned you, you were so clearly on Kíli’s side that I again was confounded what to think. Only in Moria I began to understand.”

 

“You are not making much sense,” Boromir had relaxed slightly; he sat leaning forward, elbows resting easily on his legs. Whether he truly was not following Aragorn’s argument or if he waited for Aragorn to present his conclusion was not to be told, but he had given up on being argumentative, which was progress indeed.

 

“The crossroads, where we met Kíli, do you remember that day?” Aragorn asked back. “When I told you that it would be better we had some answers and you asked Kíli about them? Do you recall that moment?”

 

“Tharnul’s Crossing, in Moria.” That was what Kíli had called the broken place. Frowning, Boromir thought back, he recalled Kíli setting down the pack and himself noticing the dwarf was tired. He had guided Kíli over to the broken stones to sit. “I remember.” he said, not seeing the point.

 

“When you guided Kíli to sit on that broken wall… you acted much like he was a Prince, even staying close like you were a guard,” Aragorn said. “you did not even know who he was then, I think you only learned there that he was of Durin’s House, but the way you treated him was like you already knew.” He could see Boromir frown anew. “and then our travel through Moria. Of all among us, even Gimli, you were the only one unafraid, when we others would hardly dare to look at the darkness and the ruins closing in on us, you looked at that dark place like it was the greatest wonder left in the world, like it was something indefinitely precious.”

 

“It is,” Boromir interrupted him. “it is maybe the greatest kingdom there was in the world, hidden from the prying eyes of mortals… and lost to the shadow. How could any man look at Dwarrowdelf and not admire the greatness and the sheer loss of such a realm?”

 

“Greatness,” Aragorn raised his hand, slightly pointing towards Boromir, to underline his argument. “I would deem that one of your weaknesses, Boromir, that you seek for a cause of greatness and pride, beyond even that what mortals may achieve.”

 

“So you are calling me arrogant,” The Captain said. “And… I am still not sure what you are trying to say.” A part of him knew though, if only in whispers, in dreams half remembered at dawn.

 

“Only you can know what happened between the moment you left us on Amon Hen and the day we met again before the walls of Minas Tirith. But I saw it again when we spoke of your father’s death –Kíli would try and protect you like you were one of his men, and you wanted to beg his forgiveness for whatever your father did to him. Am I now closer to the mark?”

 

Boromir looked down, knowing Aragorn had seen directly into his soul. When he looked up, had again schooled his features to a calm mask. “You are right, Aragorn, if I had that choice, if I were free to give my loyalties, I’d rather follow this Prince in Exile than anyone else. That does not mean I will not do my duty for Gondor, for our people. No man’s fears and no man’s dreams may stand in the way of protecting the White City. _No ties but her._ ”

 

And finally Aragorn understood, Boromir would always place his duty first, he would serve, even if his heart was not in it any more, he would fight for Gondor, if not her King, even if it broke his very soul. Aragorn regretted that he would never win this man’s loyalties; he had wished they could be friends, much as the stubborn and prideful son of Denethor had sometimes aggravated him. “It leaves one other choice,” he said, rising to his feet, placing his hand on the head of the still sitting man. “Boromir, Son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, the Heir of Isildur declares you free of your oaths and obligations to the White City and the land of Gondor, no duty binds you, no oath ties you to this land or crown. You shall be as a stranger to the White City and free to choose your path from this moment onwards.”

 

Under the light of the moon, Aragorn saw all color drain from Boromir's face. For a moment it appeared like the man would speak, say anything at all, but when he opened his mouth the words never came, he remained silent.. Pale but steady he rose, backing away from Aragorn, before turning around and walking off into the night outside camp.

 

TRB

 

The silent hour before Midnight found Boromir by the riverside, after wandering aimlessly through the forest. The Moon stood low above the hills and would soon vanish to sleep beyond the mountains. Not that Boromir truly saw the moon or his surroundings. Aragorn’s words had revealed what had been on his mind sometimes, though whenever he had considered it, he had known the clear, hard fact that it was impossible. He was sworn to serve Gondor until the day he died, and his father would have sneered at such a release from duty. _Only a coward weasels his way out of his duties. We all are born into one place and we have to fill this place, and fill it well. He who fails to do so is no man, but a piece of garbage._ He could almost hear the scathing voice of the old man. Boromir shook his head. His father might have thought like that, and maybe he would have despised Boromir for having it let come to this… but his opinion or approval was nothing Boromir cared about any more.

 

During one of their advances across the river Paros Boromir had once found a haradic Lion, chained to a wall in a courtyard of the abandoned city. There had been no living being left in the city but the captured animal. Boromir had approached the giant cat, and finding it did not attack him, had broken the collar setting it free. There was no need for the proud animal to die of thirst in the empty city. The huge, golden cat hat looked at him confused and then slunk along the walls of the yard for a while, like it did not know what it should do with its sudden freedom.

 

Right now Boromir felt exactly like that, like someone had broken his chains and he did not know what to do with himself now that he was free. He thought back to the lion, who had eventually run out of the city gates and vanished into the vast width of Harad’s steppes. Maybe this was his answer? Stop pondering and walk through the gate that had opened before him? He knew that the strength to believe and to fight for something was still unbroken inside him, he could still embrace a cause and fight for it. He did not fear fighting, or danger… or whatever else may await down that road. All he needed to do was leave his doubts behind.

 

When he returned to camp, third watch was being called, and without planning on it, his steps guided him towards the dwarven part of the camp, where no one seemed to sleep. By a bright blazing fire Kíli, Dwalin, Bofur and a number of other dwarves were sitting and talking. Making room for him by the fire, Dwalin invited him over with a wave of his hand.

 

Glad for the company, Boromir sat down with them, noticing the dwarves’ solemn miens, whatever they had been speaking off, it could not be a happy topic. “Should I leave?” he asked.

 

“No,” Bofur said. “maybe you can tell us something. How fast will Gondor aspire to reclaim Arnor?”

 

This was not a question he had expected. “With the coronation of Aragorn, Gondor and Arnor would be again united under one crown, the kingdom fully restored. Given that the King is a man from the North, I doubt he will tarry to follow up on this claim.” Boromir expected no less.

 

“Damn,” Bofur said grimly, he had taken off his hat and twisted the already looped sides even more. “that gives us one summer, maybe a year to pull our people out.”

 

Perplexed, Boromir looked at the greying dwarf. “What do you mean, Bofur?”

 

“A lot of our people are spread out through the lone lands,” Kíli replied in Bofur’s stead, his hand moved over the low fire and for a moment Boromir believed that he saw a glowing outline of a map in the embers. “you saw Bofur’s settlement in Rhudaur, there are many like that in Rhudaur, Arthedain and Cardolan.”

 

“There was no claim to that land anymore; we went where we found ores or stone to make it worth staying.” Bofur told him, putting his fist down hard on his knee. “two thirds of our people are there, with the other third in Cardemir. But with Arnor’s claim to the land… it’s back to the road for us.”

 

“I would never think Aragorn would drive your people off the land,” Boromir said, no matter his own disagreements with the man, Aragorn was a good man and he’d not be stupid enough to drive off an industrious and hardy populace.

 

“If we wanted to live under a foreign king we could have stayed with Dain eighty years ago,” Dwalin said firmly. “we did not bend knee to Dain and we won’t for Aragorn either.”

 

“We may not have that many options, old friend,” Kíli said to the warrior. “Cardemir can’t support a populace that size. The iron mines in the Ered Luin are ancient, and you know how deep they already go.”

 

Bofur nodded grimly. “We could move north, towards Forochel, nasty cold place but there’s still a chance to build mines under the ice.”

 

“We’d still touch the borders of Arnor,” Kíli said. “the claim will be made for Arnor’s furthest old reaches, old friend. There won’t be that much room left on that side of the mountains.”

 

“So it’s back to the road,” Bofur confirmed grimly. “we did it before, Kíli, we can do it again.”

 

Boromir averted his eyes, unable to meet their eyes in this moment,, these dwarves had fought to protect Gondor, they had bled and died to aid the White City and opposed the shadow bravely, but victory meant for them to lose their homes again. “What of the Southern Ered Luin?” he asked.

 

“No better than the northern parts,” Bofur told him. “Boromir, these iron mines are the oldest in the world, going back all the way to the first age. We only manage to still mine ore there by digging very deep, and support structures, air, not to mention water management can only do so much. We are at our limit there.”

 

“What of the Misty Mountains?” Boromir asked. “neither Arnor nor Gondor ever held any claim to them.” He vividly recalled the dream he had during their travels, the dream of Moria… there had to be a place for the dwarves somewhere. Maybe some Wizard believed that this was the Age of Men beginning, but this Man sitting here would not want to live in a world without dwarrow any longer.

 

“Full of Goblins,” Dwalin told him in his deep rumbling voice. “small settlements would have to fight even harder than they do now. With the Black Lands not draining the Goblin’s numbers any more, things will heat up before long. But… you have a point there, Boromir.”

 

“No.” Kíli rose, walking a few steps so he stood with his back to them. “I won’t let you all go to another life on the road, of suffering and needless death. I’ll do what I should have done eighty years ago.” He hesitated, like the next words were a burden of lead on his shoulders. Finally he raised his chin, inhaling sharply, though when he spoke his voice was calm and steady. “I will go to Erebor, kneel to Dain and swear to him. It will allow our people to go home.”

 

“No way.” Dwalin growled. “I swear upon my brother’s grave, the day after I’ll call Dain out, he can’t deny the son of Fundin’s blood is descended from Durin’s line, much like his own. I shall challenge him for his stolen crown and I’ll hack him to pieces.”

 

“Dwalin…”

 

„No, Kíli. If Daín is too much of a coward to fight… there is a man, out in the East who is right now thinking about a foothold in the west and I think a fat dwarf King and his lazy vassals would be just right for him to vent some serious anger.“ Dwalin’s eyes shone in angry fire as he stood there, determined to not give ground.

 

Kíli whipped about, facing his old friend. “Dwalin, we can’t send our people wandering again. You know the southern reaches, neither Dunland nor Enedwaith are places where we will gain a foothold, you were there, you know what it was like there the last time. And Rohan has some vengeance to vent down on the Dunlendings anyway; I’d not get between them and a serious grudge. We could try the Ered Mithrin again, but that means contending with the wyrms in the Withered Heath anew.”

 

“And that would place us on Erebor’s doorstep,” Bladvila threw in. “we might as well move east and see what of the former Kingdom of Rhûn we can carve up for our own.”

 

“We don’t have an army to take on the Easterling Empire,” Brea told him. “And most of us are at home in the west.”

 

Dwalin gestured them to be silent. “What about Moria?” he said. “All say that Gandalf slew Durin’s Bane, so there’s no contending with that beast anymore.”

 

“Only with legions of Orcs,” Kíli pointed out. “Dwalin, returning to Moria will mean ten years of war, at the very least. And we’d need numbers to do it.”

 

“If we have every dwarf of Eriador and the Ered Luin in on it, we have the numbers.” Bofur stood too. “And if we call on those of Durin’s folk who still live in exile beyond the mountains, we’d get even more. Kíli, Dwalin is right, we have a chance now and… you have the right by blood to claim Khazad-Dum, you are the last of the line.”

 

By now all of them were at their feet, Boromir too stood, between Dwalin and Bofur. Kíli looked at them, each of them, taking in their faces, their expressions. “It will mean another war, and a tough one at that,” he said calmly. “Is that truly what you wish?”

 

“Yes.” Bofur was the first to speak, the others nodding in agreement, a few soft “Ayes” sounding in between. “We know it will be hard, but we are used to that. Kíli… let us go home, let us retake our true home… and make sure no one will ever take it away from us again.”

 

 _Guide me, Raven_ _’_ _s wing, I shall follow you home._ Kíli recalled the runes on his sword. Thorin had left him a legacy much greater and much heavier than he had ever known. But backing out or letting down his people was not possible, not with that unwavering trust they put into him. They did believe in him and they had followed him, even to war, even under the wings of the Shadow, he could not let them down. He straightened up, meeting their eyes evenly. “Then it is decided, I will return to Moria, I am calling on all of Durin’s folk who are willing to follow me to the gates of our ancestral home. Let it be known that any of Durin’s Folk coming freely and willingly will be welcome amongst mine, and so will be those of Var’s folk,” he added with a warm smile to Bofur, who had originally been a Blacklock, and “Linnar’s folk”—a glance to Brea who had been born a Broadbeam—“that are willing to cast their lots with us.”

 

“We will stand with you.” Dwalin’s firm voice echoed what all the dwarves present felt.

 

Boromir had been awed to watch this moment, seeing how the dwarves found together to chart the course their people would follow. Again he recalled that dream he had in Moria months ago; he had never considered that it might have been a portent, a dream emerging from the foresight the blood of Númenor was gifted with. And now he knew that he’d gladly follow it, no matter what. He stepped forward and drew the black sword. “I will stand with you too, if you’ll have me.”

 

TRB

 

After Boromir had hastened off into the night, Aragorn felt doubts. Had he done the right thing? Boromir’s reaction indicated that he may not have wished to leave Gondor after all. Aragorn thought he had read him right, but what if he had been wrong? Boromir was a strong, proud warrior; he would never ask to be allowed to stay now that Aragorn had released him, even if he wished so. Worried, Aragorn began to look for the man, who knew what such a perceived dishonor might drive him to?

 

After two hours of fruitless search, Aragorn heard light steps approach him; only his trained Ranger ears picked up on the man shadowing him. “You can come out,” he said, turning towards the point where he knew him to be.

 

Faramir stepped from the shadows of a tree, his ranger cloak having provided him with good cover. “Forgive the intrusion, my Lord,” he said with a light bow. “I saw you wander deep in thought and without guard… these lands may be freed but no one knows how many escaped dark soldiers would gladly take their revenge where they can find it.”

 

“Do not apologize for your watchfulness,” Aragorn replied, gesturing the other Ranger to walk with him. Up till now he had perceived Faramir mostly through his great likeness to his brother. They both were much alike in appearance, the same light hair and familiar features, only that Faramir seemed less scarred by the long war. Yet he had stepped between Aragorn and the Easterling foe and stood his ground where others had failed. Now Aragorn noticed other things as well, that set both brothers apart. In the battle he had noticed that Faramir was a defender, contrary to his brother, but the differences went deeper. Watching the man walking beside him, Aragorn saw a man of compassion, of care for others, untainted by the long war and a gentle soul that had not broken under the Shadow. “I was looking for your brother,” he said. “we had a misunderstanding and I fear what may come of it.”

 

“He passed the camp an hour ago, going towards the river, my liege,” Faramir spoke calmly, no worry or contention marring his voice. “He often does so when he wants to think something through. Whatever words were spoken between you, I doubt he misread you that badly.”

 

Aragorn nearly smiled at Faramir’s unspoken assumption that there could neither have been harm nor enmity in Aragorn towards them; it was a trust that came as a surprise from Boromir’s brother. With Boromir trust, respect had always been a struggle; Aragorn had always felt in competition with him, which made Faramir’s acceptance of him, his trust all the more welcome. “I may have misread him, Faramir.” He said, telling him of their conversation in words as simple as possible. “I believed he wished to be free, to chart his own path from hereon, but… I fear I misread his love to this land.”

 

Faramir neither spoke nor passed judgment; he simply accepted Aragorn’s words, something for which he was grateful in this moment of worry. A blink of his eyes, nothing more than that, asked Aragorn to follow him, and he understood that Faramir knew something that might help.

 

Guiding his future King towards where he had seen Boromir headed, Faramir’s mind has circled around his own worries; he had not failed to notice the contention between his brother and the heir of Elendil. Knowing his brother like none other, Faramir had seen the countless times that Boromir had curbed his pride, or held back on a sharp tongued reaction. And it made Faramir fear for the future, for he could also see that Lord Aragorn held the same amount of tension towards Boromir.

 

Moving silently through the nightly forest, Faramir led Aragorn down to the river, along the bank and then back to the other fringe of the camp. There Aragorn saw Boromir standing among a group of dwarves, the light of a fire and several torches illuminated the scene. Before he could approach the warrior, even try to talk to him, he saw Boromir draw his sword and approach Kíli. The wind had not allowed him to hear what had been said previously, but he did not need to, for Boromir knelt before Kíli, presenting the black blade on his open palms.

 

Boromir’s voice was firm and steady as his words rang out into the night: “Here do I swear fealty and service to Kíli son of Dis daughter of Thrain, and to the line of Durin hereafter, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my King release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Boromir son of Denethor of the House of Húrin.”

 

Had the world gone up in flames, Faramir could not have been more surprised. Across the distance, he saw the Dwarf Prince standing in the light of several torches, his brother kneeling, rendering that oath in a calm and steady voice, the flickering of the light and shades made it hard to make out an expression Faramir was almost sure that Boromir’s decision must have surprised Kíli.

 

“I should have spoken to him sooner,” Aragorn whispered, watching Boromir stepping forward and bend knee to Kíli.

 

“No,” Faramir said softly. “This is no anger, Aragorn… he is free. Finally, the chain that held him through duty and obligation since he was a youth is broken. You set him free.” It hurt horribly to see it and it was exhilarating to watch but Faramir knew that this was his brother’s choice, the cause he chose freely and that he would gladly follow. Though the way Boromir had rendered the oath had made Faramir wince, this was not the way dwarves swore their loyalties; he had read about that, their oaths were as ancient as their people were.

 

But Prince Kíli did not correct nor rebuke the oath; he took the blade, accepting the offered loyalties. “And I have heard your oath, as have Mahal and the forefathers. Under their eyes it was spoken and it was heard by world below and the skies above, may it endure until the world ends. Hear you then my vow to you: no loyalty shall be forgotten, nor valor remain unhonored, if to the lawcourt you are called, in legal tangles twisted and tied, then I and all of my kin shall stand as oath-helpers if you should need this; and finally, my sword shall stand between you and your enemies, my strength beside you boldly, for no arm alone will win battle.”

 

Being used to the stark promise of Gondor’s oaths, the kind of serious, deep seated loyalty sworn between them was something to touch Faramir.  It was a bond of an Elder Kind, that belonged into the tales and stories of an elder age. He knew that this oath was not traditional dwarven either – with Boromir invoking neither Mahal nor Eru in his vow, Kíli had to call upon Mahal and the world itself to satisfy dwarven propriety. Also the last part of the oath had been changed, but Faramir understood why Kíli would not use the brotherless phrase in this context. He saw Boromir receive the blade back and Kíli lifting him up. The following embrace conveyed a wealth of feeling. The other dwarves cheered, a ring closing, as Boromir was welcomed into their ranks.

 

Faramir looked to Aragorn, who’s eyes were still on the dwarves, were Boromir’s welcome had turned into a round of raucous hugs and shoulder claps. What was the future King thinking about this? Faramir had seen how worried he had been when he thought he had pushed Boromir too far, and yet he watched that scene with a palpable amount of sadness. Even with all the tension between them, maybe there had been a measure of understanding too, one that Boromir had eschewed by choosing to follow another. “I am sorry it came to that, my liege,” Faramir said. “He was Gondor’s best soldier.”

 

“Nay.” Aragorn turned towards Faramir. “It is well done. He may have been her finest, most ruthless soldier, but he was not the man who stood between me and certain death at the Black Gates. Boromir follows his heart; there can be no better path to choose. And I have the man I would wish for by my side.”

 

Unused to praise or acknowledgement, Faramir felt his cheeks heat, glad that the darkness hid it. He bowed respectfully, surprised to see Aragorn smile. “Go to your brother. I fear it may be the last chance for you to speak for a long time.”

 

Seeing Boromir between his new chosen comrades was something Faramir would have to get used to, he thought. They were the wildest, toughest bunch of fighters and travelers he had ever seen, but somehow that was what made him think why Boromir would be all right with them. He had always been the warrior, the fighter, and the war had shaped him. They too had been formed and hammered by a merciless world. Faramir knew his brother had chosen another war to join, but if he was brutally honest with himself, he could not picture Boromir in a peaceful City going over the peacetime duties of a Captain.

 

“Fari!” Boromir called out to him, stepping away from his conversation with Kíli and Dwalin. It had been years since Faramir had seen his brother smile so easily, or seen his eyes sparkle with such life. If he had held any doubts about Boromir’s decision now they would have been alleviated. Boromir was happy, he had made a choice straight out of his heart and while Faramir could not quite follow why his brother would chose thus, he was content to know it had been the right choice for him. But he also could see that Boromir was searching for words to explain what had just transpired.

 

“I saw, Boromir,” he simply stated, “and I am happy if this is your choice, even as you have charted your path straight into the next war.” And a big war at that, the Orcs still had their strongholds in the Misty Mountains, and if he took Boromir’s descriptions of Moria seriously, then Dwarrowdelf was full of Orcs and dangers. Yet… even with all these worries in his heart, Faramir knew Boromir’s decision was _right,_ it was the path Boromir wished to follow.

 

“It is my choice, Fari. And if someone does not begin to fight the Orcs in the Misty Mountains, we might as well send envoys to that Goblin King under Mt. Gundalbad.” The brothers’ eyes met and many things did not need saying, they both understood wordlessly. “Will you be all right?” Boromir asked. “With the new King…”

 

“Whom you dislike.” Faramir slapped his brother’s shoulder. “You serve the King you chose, and so will I.”

 

TRB

 

The road wound up the high hills of Mindolluin before it would bring them to the entrance of an ancient dwarven road, long forgotten and abandoned. The column moved slowly past the sharp turn in the road, taking the steep path up. Boromir had guided his horse to the side of the road and turned back. Nestled in the shadow of the mountain lay the white city, a thorn of pearl and silver glittering in the morning light fnally free and finally at peace. After five decades of constant was, peace had at least come to Minas Tirith.

 

Boromir’s eyes strayed back to the Tower of Ecthelion. The last time he had looked back on the city, he had begun a journey into uncertain lands for an even more uncertain reason; following a haunting dream his brother and he had shared after retaking Osgiliath. Fear and darkness had accompanied his ride north, as had doubts gnawing on his soul. He would always be grateful for that dream, for it had led him to not only find hope, but also the friendship and strength to see this struggle through to the very end.

 

He could not have returned to the Citadel, to Minas Tirith, without feeling the cold echo of his father's crazed end, or expecting Veryan to be right at his shoulder. He had loved this city with all his heart; she had been what had made him stand strong even when he had felt he’d break under the strain, and yet… he had given her all he could. From the time he had turned sixteen, the duty to her had been an iron weight upon his shoulders, supporting the failing rule of his father, fighting the war. Twenty five years, and now she was safe and in the hands of one who would heal her. The thought woke a soaring feeling in his chest, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, a duty that had always threatened to crush him lifted and he finally could take flight. Boromir smiled and raised his hand in goodbye. Saying that the white city was no longer his city, no longer his home did not hurt.

 

Hooves resounded on the stone grounds beside him and he saw Kíli approach him astride his white pony. “Ready to move out?” he asked, his voice indicating understanding if Boromir needed time.

 

“Ready,” Boromir turned his horse, following Kíli as they galloped past the marchers to the head of the column. No need for time and no regrets, no second thoughts. He was free and they were going to reclaim the greatest kingdom of Middle-earth. He would not have it any other way. As their horses sped towards the dwarven road, Boromir laughed.

 

_One warm summer night, he rode out of sight_

_On a wild mare that was so perfectly white  
I'd dreamed I_ _’_ _d go with him and I was right_  
Wishes can come true when you wish with all your might

_(Blackmore_ _’_ _s Night: “The Peasant_ _’_ _s Promise”)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:
> 
> This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. All characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.


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